My Mind Lives On the Outside

This is what I will do:
I'll get myself into a dead-end job - a supermarket cashier perhaps - and rent a basement apartment I can barely afford. You know the type, empty for years and reeking of damp; bare, rough wood flooring and wallpaper peeling to reveal the reddish brick beneath. It'll be empty except for a can of beans and a loaf of bread (two weeks past its sell by date), and whiskey, and an old wooden record player. I'll listen to Tom Waits as I read Nietzsche and Dostoevsky, and strike the walls to watch them bleed blue with faded potential.

The Inked Blade

Just as painters live for their art, poets live for theirs. But for a writer it is more so. For a writer, the wriitng will take on not only a life of their own, but a personality; a whole seperate soul. A writer can converse with their pieces, argue with them... feel jelous of them. Sometimes you might tell him his words are beautiful, and you'll see a shadow briefly cross his face before he responds with a 'thank you' and a smile, stretched too tight to be true. Eventually he will become angry at his work. He'll stop writing; he'll tear up old notebooks in the hope he can forget the words seemingly carbed into the inside of his skull. He'll snap all his pens and pencils, so they can never damage someone else's life as they have damamged his. He'll drink, so the letters dance blurrily before his eyes, and phrases drop off to lie forever incomplete in the dirt - so he never has to be the one to write them down.

All this, simply because he knows he can never be as beautiful as the words he writes.

The Banker's Veins

Money is the blood of society.

The Room In The Asylum

The room is plain, that's an understatement; pale cream walls and bare floorboards, worn smooth by a thousand footsteps. A single bed is in the corner, neatly made with biege sheets. A desk stands opposite it, upon which sits a cup filled with pencils and biros, a stack of paper aligned perfectly to the corner, and a notebook. A small wooden chair is tucked under it. Above the desk, a shelf holds a dozen books, spines facing outwards, all lined up like soldieres with no one to fight. A laptop lies at the other end, wires carefully rolled up and sitting beside it. A bottle of water and a box of graham crackers are the only other items on the shelf. Not a single picture or poster adorns the walls. In fact, they are completely free from decoration of any kind. Everything with its purpose. Everything with its place.

This is the place that entropy goes to die.

The Embrace

It's just that sometimes when I breath you in, I swear, the whole Universe could fit inside my heart.

The Insanity

Look at these crooked fingers, the dirt embedded beneath my nails. My guilty hands, the marks on them, the way I never know where to put them or what to do with them. They are proof of what I have done and have never been able to do. This silence, the stillness of my body beneath the great blanket that is the night sky, the quick, quiet moment between heartbeats. The way my heart aches for people I don't know. How I can go days wondering why I am the way I am, the person I am. I am not dissatisfied so much as I am curious. I have always been curious, always wandering, always searching, always finding new unrequited love, always breaking. Waking up and wondering if I've woken up. Waking up and wishing I hadn't woken up. Waking up and waking up again and again until it is no longer a tedious 'something', just another something that everyone else does and doesn't think twice about. The way words can turn me black and white. The way words can change blue into a darker blue. The way words are feelings are subconscious thoughts are my voice, recorded and played over and over again, projected from a loudspeaker, announced from a moving vehicle allowing only parts of me into your ear until my voice becomes just a fleeting sound, a tunnel wind, sweeping past you, pulling leaves and debris along with it. These are some parts of me. The crooked parts. The parts that make you look once and maybe twice but never three times. The parts that make me feel disconnected and connected again in the strangest way. Like we're all so confused and curious and afraid of what is coming and what isn't. We're all so caught up in romance, in tending to our needs, watering our plants in the evening, fixing dinner for one, mostly. But to this day I feel like my eyes are only temporary ones, they will fall away when I am fast asleep and I will wake up with baby blues that know how to see the world the way it is supposed to be seen. Eyes that won't misinterpret bone for beauty. Eyes that don't stare at suns that were never born, or read books that were never written. Eyes that will see the inside as it is and the outside as it will always be; temporary.

The Insomnia

Life is so precious, even now.

The Lost Girl

Beneath a Saraca Indica tree, the sorrow tree, you sat alone wondering and wanting to ask, but you remained still and silent, listening to the heavy sound of fleeting birds. "I live in a small town," you whispered, "not too far from the city." This city, the city that you would frequent, where nobody knew you but they knew who you wanted to be; it became you, your life, your family, your friends. This city was everything to you. Not the people, but the streets, the culture, the cracks in old, weathered pavement. The yellow, blue, orange, red houses. The marketplaces lit only by sunlight and diverse fruit. Each day you brushed your hair, tied it back, wore that old green shirt with the brown and yellow buttons, those boat shoes, and walked through the city, smiling with your tongue hiding behind your teeth and your fingers crossed behind your back.

How could you lie to the city the same way you lied to me? They trust that you will stay, but you are a nomad. Wanderlust in your heart, singing devil in your ear, whispering "Won't you stay?"

The Whiskey Glass

“Maybe you shouldn’t drink so much.” I suggested gently.
“Child,” you shook your head and took another sip. “Child, what you should understand about me is that I am a deeply unhappy person.”

(Image by : RENO, www.rinothebouncer.com)

The Untitled Prose

We went out one time with his Dog, Suzie, catching birds. Suzie’s a fantastic bird dog, he said. He let her out of the trunk and I looked at her and I said: You know, I don’t believe Suzie’s feeling too good. He looked at her and felt her nose and all. Said she looked alright to him. I told him, I said: I just don’t believe she’s real well today. We set out and hunted all afternoon and killed not one bird. Started walking back to the car and he says to me, Bill says: You know, it’s funny you noticing old Suzie was not feeling good today. They way you spotted it. I said: Well, Suzie was sick today. Suzie was sick yesterday. Suzie has always been sick. Suzie will always be sick. Suzie is a sick dog.

The Circus Children

Sometimes you cry in your sleep, like you're dreaming of a memory you'd rather forget. You touch my hips like they could break, and kiss my fingers when you're sad. I can't make you better; you're fucked for good. I like that you touch me like I'm delicate, like you're scared that your fingertips will rub away at my skin and muscle until all you're holding is bones. I wish that I could keep you, but you're a wildcat with jagged edges sharp enough to draw blood. No one can have you. Not even me.

The Elephant In The Herd

You're not stuck in traffic; you are traffic.

The Blur Of Land And Sea

I'd like to grab a bottle of whiskey and a good book, and swim down to the bottom of the deepest oceans. I'd like to stay there forever.

The Words On The Prison Wall

I didn’t go to the World’s Largest Pillow Fight like I said I would. I didn’t even look up train times. I sat inside and watched the sun come up through the trees while somewhere else other people were making history.

The Parallel Doors

So yes, that was the only reason I kissed you; to see if tendresse would do what anger could not.

The Carrion Birds

Fruit flies over a kitchen sink and reddish paint splashed across the tiles in a vicious X. Smashed china crunches beneath feet that don't dare move and somewhere something bigger than a mouse scurries for cover. Screams from squemish women - one faints and in a pointless act of chivalry a man swears in the direction of the noise. Glares at the man - the silence has been broken and along with it something far less tangible; an ambience of narcissistic respect for this person they had never spoken to. He hangs his head and turns away looking ill. Another makes a move to pick up the disarrayed furniture and someone notices; steps forward to help him. Together the group tidy the flat in a trance, opening windows and letting fresh air wash away stale dust. They pry through the bedroom, setting a lamp back on the stand, flicking through photo albums but through unspoken agreement no one enters the kitchen, where a rotting stench still rules, and creatures rustle behind cabinets, as if whispering secrets in a foreign language. The story perhaps, of how this woman came to be alone.

Oh, if walls could speak

They'd only found her when it started to smell.

The Final Breath

Shhhhh, lean in close.

Let me let you in on a secret; your last thought won't be wondering what people thought of you, how you dressed, or whether that pair of jeans makes your bum look big. You're last thought will be 'Oh, is it over already?'

The Introduction

Hair darkening after the bleaching summer's sun. Green-brown eyes that seem lighter when you're happy - dark shadows under them from nights awake under the covers. A Dostoevsky quote scrawled up your right arm so it's not forgotten - a telltale sign of your lefthandedness. And your pessimism. You practise scowling at yourself; can never quite get it right, but when you smile, you don't look like you.

The Bag Over The Cage

All at once your anger dissipates, so fast as to be smoke from a fire. You look and me and smile, a twisted line drawn across a clown's face."Wanna see something cool?" You ask me, knowing how eager I would be to agree. You walk to the window and chirp, a bird like whistle that has me leaning in, fascinated. A bird, a robin with eyes brighter than the midday sun and wings like pointed razor blades hops closer, seemingly compelled to follow you. Closer, closer and closer still until it crosses the boundary, enters our world through the portal of a window frame. You reach out a hand, so slowly you are barely moving. And, to my surprise, it lets you.

"Beautiful," I say, barely more than a breath.You continue reaching, until, at last, you finger brushes its wing. At once, it hops backwards, soaring straight for the window, but you get there first and slam it shut. The bird flies straight into it, chirping angrily; showing true terror in every action. You turn to me. "This is what they do to us" You say, expression blank, angry. "That's not beautiful, that's cruelty."

Despite the hurt done, I learnt more in that conversation than in all my years of schooling.

The Words Are So Easily Said

You once asked me why I was here.
“I’m here because your hair is like red wood in sunlight.” I replied with a smile. “I’m here because you know all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody. Because you still get mad when someone reads your diary, even if it was from when you were seven. Because you’re not afraid to disagree with me. Because you hate Dickens but adore Hemmingway. Because you’re a morning person. Because you go to graveyards and lay flowers on the graves of people you never knew.”
“Do you love me?”

But didn’t I just say that?

The Scattered Pieces

If I use these words that mean nothing to me at all, then they won't tear off pieces of me as I write them down.

The Waxing Moon

Today I got a haircut. I bought a new shirt, I scraped the mud off my best shoes. The good night's sleep erased dark circles from my under eyes, and for the first time in years my skin is clear, healthy rather than the sallow grey of a drug addict. My mouth stretched back in the pretence of a smile that was almost real.

So yes, I may still have that scar through my eyebrow, and my joy still doesn't quite reach my face. And my knuckles are still grazed from that fight, and my eyes are still that deep grey of grief, and it still hurts for you to kiss lips through which lies slip so easily, but I'm getting better. I'm learning to be so much more for you. Have faith in me for just a little while longer, and I swear I will get this one thing right amidst all my sins. You deserve so much better, but if you want me, then you will have the best me I can find.

They Say Love Will Blind You

We walk through the deserted park, hand in hand. Glass cracks beneath our feet, and dying reeds scratch knee-high at our legs. A stone , hurled through the air, strikes your temple; ignored. Running our fingers across graffiti, we pretend we read love letters, and feel the caress of flowers - not thorns. Just playing at being lovers, in an unloving world.

The Immortal Gatekeeper

It's too many days without you. I can take the years, but not the days.

The Infectious Taboo

They think they can get rid of me, but no, lift a stone and you will see me; split a piece of wood along the crease of your thumb, and you will see me. Look inside, and look hard, into the tiny, dark parts of yourself you would rather ignore. And you will see me.

The Birds Fly In Formation

I will take all your lies and your doubt and your crushed dreams, if it will make you hope again. And I will take all your pills and your sickness and your poison, if it will make you well again. And I will take all your fractures, and your sprains and your breaks, if it will make you whole again. And I will take all your anger and your fear and your hate, if it will make you love again.

The Interpreter Can't Speak

I write, not what I want you to hear, but what I think you want to say. And I wish I didn’t have to write.

The Former And The Latter

I want to have a child who asks me what war was.

The Box

My body is a piano, full of black keys only. I am in a country where everyone’s face is different from mine, and the language I don't understand is the act of not speaking, and noise is everywhere in the air we breathe. I am doing what the Romans do in Rome; I am trying to communicate but no one has told me that these people cannot hear.

Genesis One

I am this book’s disaffected youth. I am your life’s idiosyncratic mind wrinkle. I will infect your soul. Kill me quickly. Unreal and trashy. Full of the ire of youth and distortions of anger. In that same vein, full of the blessings of life. Full of vigour. Ready to see that my future bear fruits of labour, and that I wipe my mouth clean of every rotten taste.

The Past And The Present

We took off our clothes, and we tore the paper from the walls, the carpet from the floor. We burnt those framed photographs and ripped out the wires. We took it down brick by brick, until only scrub-covered ground remained.
And we let the Earth be, how it was meant to be.

The Boundries

The sun in my eyes felt like someone was kicking me in the jaw. I was so high I thought my eyes would fall out. Standing shaky on the thinning grass, I realized I had to catch the train home. I ran 5 blocks and got there just as the operator was locking the front compartment. Resting up on the 701, with the sterile light slipping beneath my eyelids. Puerile breathing in front of me. I open my eyes and am being stared at. Eye contact with a child is always easier than eye contact with an adult. Adults always look away quickly, embarrassed of their booming thoughts, convictions, judgments. Children stare straight at you and lay it all out on the table.
“You look tired.”
“I know,” I said.

The Wild Retakes The City

I know now what becomes of helium balloons, let loose to fly. They are the loves that slipped through our fingers, floating higher until not even a splash of colour remains.

The Thorn Threatens The Flower

Your face was bright, as you looked at the blood splayed across the floor, with the kind of joy I associate with small children, who can find wonder in things they do not understand.

The Giraffes And The Zebras

And I am the Elephant, who cannot forget.

The Camera Flash

In that instance, we all look like ghosts.

The Buds Are Gone Now

I know that a few decades from now, I won't be able to picture the freckles on your shoulder so clearly they might be before my eyes, and I wouldn't remember the curve of your smile, and your face won't be the first thing I see every morning.

And that scares me to death, but it keeps me going.

The Distance Between

You once asked me: "Why do you look to the ground when you walk?"

"So I can see where I'm treading." I said. "Why do you look to the sky?" I, equally bemused.

With a smile you reply "So I can see where I'm going."

The Ivy Messages

Get up, brush off your shame, and come outside.

We're all waiting for you.

The Silence

I cannot speak now. What I saw silenced me. So now we speak with our hands, signing in a language no one else understands. I touch your hand and I wonder; In our new voice, these fingers are our lips. Does that make this a kiss?

The Scars Bear No Colour Of The Rainbow.

Today the brightest green of new buds met the clearest blue of the sky. And the blue met the yellow of a freshly picked daisy, which brought with it the clearest white of newly fallen snow. With them travelled the soft pink of a child's cheek, blended with the black of a starless night and the orange of this summer's brightest midday sun. On the road the purple of heather ran alongside as dog to his master. And as they moved on together, they left our world the bleakest grey.

Only then did we notice we'd chased all the colours away.

The Boy Who Crawled To The Moon

I tried to define love once. There's a part of my brain still trying, locked in a tiny back room of my mind, refusing to come out until it has an equation that works.

The Letter To The Past

Dear you,

I'm sorry. I'm sorry for whatever it was that made you hate me so much. Or seem to hate me. Is there really any difference, now? I'm sorry for whatever made you hurt so bad you took it out on me. I'm sorry for not being a good kid, for messing up, for getting in the way. You opened my eyes and what I saw blinded me. But at least, for a single moment, I saw. That's more than most people can say.
So I wish I could stay, but I think it's time to go now. My story started with a beating and a scream, and it stops, for you, on a train journey away with a rucksack and a head full of hurt and dreams. Not all stories have a happy ending.

Goodbye.
Love,

Me.

The Correction

God damn punk, boy who cried wolf; hold his hand one more time, scream at the top of his lungs for him, that for the first time in years, yes, he can be that person.

The way you held my hand just a little right after I first saw you - my all-time wish-list, mile-marker. There are no words, no language suitable to describe you. I know I am so difficult, do everything you tell me not to, don't listen and don't shut my mouth, but I'm learning to want to be so much better for you. And I know I do almost everything wrong, I really do just want you to be happy, cared for, loved so well. I know it seems like I will never stop being this way but have faith in me. I don't deserve it but I will get this right. I will get me right.

The Dark Side Of The Moon

I used to see life in you, but I’m not even sure you see life in yourself anymore.

The Paper Trail

I never want the ability to put you into words.

The Beauty Is Weakness Is Beauty

You’re in a bad way. It looks like you’re developing a soul.

The Pretty Omissions

People tell me my words are beautiful and I brush them off because in truth my words are meaningless. They are like nets I cast beneath my feelings even as I am thinking that emotions are as smooth and liquid as water, and will slip straight through. I throw my word nets in the hope it will convey what I mean when I know in reality that they cannot possibly hold all that I feel when I look at you.

The Dreamer Locked In Sleep

Maybe I should be face down in the dirt, with a smile and a half pack of cigarettes. In some far flung reality, lacking the capability to pick myself up off the ground. In a back alley puking up my ego while a stranger rubs my back as I think about all her flaws. Instead I’m trying to walk and all I can focus on is your smile.

The Establishment

I was made, not manufactured.