I told you...

I told you I’d been hurt,

Through the heady haze of inebriation;

And your fingers brushed over my hand.

A few weeks ago he told me

That he’d found someone else,

Because I wasn’t capable of love.

It was like a window pane had been shattered

And the sharp edges somehow found their way

Into my heart

As though my blood came in waves and left them behind as debris.

But that wasn’t what I told you.

I told you that a lot of the time…things weren’t consensual.

It felt like rushing wind around my ears to hear myself say the words,

And I couldn’t say more because the words were like salt granules;

They kept on falling onto my open wounds and it stung like an innocent bumblebee stings

Because it doesn’t know any better.

Later, as you fingers touched me lower down,

Feeling the wetness between my thighs,

I moaned and tried to forget that anything else existed,

Or had ever existed.

I tried to forget that anyone else had ever touched me.

I tried to forget that anyone else had ever wanted to.

I tried to forget that that choice was not always my own.

I tried to forget about the invasion of self

That had been happening since I was a young girl

Before I understood what it meant.

When the boys would touch me and laugh

And I didn’t have the right to feel violated.

I kissed you again and again,

And I knew exactly what I had to do

To make you happy.

You said I was drunk,

We shouldn’t rush things.

But I like to rush, like to go so fast I don’t have time to think,

And lose my mind completely, let my body take over and be in and of itself for once,

The only thing that really matters, in the same way it is seen by everyone else.

My body is me, fundamentally,

Public property,

All that you’ll ever see,

All that I’ll ever be.

I told you I’d been hurt

And you brushed my hair away from my face

And kissed me.

And I didn’t know what to think.

Finding Things

I found you the way I

Find things on my floor;

Sifting through,

Picking up at random,

Till I fix upon a useful item-

Sometimes forgetting whether or not

It was what I was looking for.

I loved you the way

Boiling water creates steam;

Inevitably,

Predictably,

Without a second thought-

A by-product of you wanting me first

And me needing to be wanted.

I trusted you the way I

Trust a power supply;

Unconditionally,

Expectantly,

Even if you broke down-

I knew you’d be back up again,

This western world system causes complacency.

I needed you the way

An umbrella needs rain;

Undoubtedly,

Quite desperately,

My very purpose depending upon

The rain that you created

To serve my self-defined, true purpose.  

I let you the way I

Let weather pull at me;

Tugging and pushing,

Invading and insisting,

Yet clearly natural and unavoidable,

A part of life I must accept-

You were both a storm and a sunny day.

I stayed with you the way

A knife stays with a fork;

Co-dependent,

Socially acceptable,

Unable to be thought of as separate-

Used together in unison,

Redundant if not with you at all.

You hurt me the way

Squash mixes with water,

Slowly,

Completely,

Entirely permeating every part,

Of everything I was or could be-

Polluting me to my very core.

I fell down the way a

Tacked on poster falls from the wall;

All at once,

Without warning,

The signs only there upon

More careful observation,

Causing great alarm at my suddenness.

I left you the way that

Ice starts to crack,

Violently,

Loudly,

Looking as though it wasn’t-

But being the natural course;

I meant to leave you all along.

Protect

I wish I could protect you

From all the cunts that think

It’s okay because you’re drunk

And wearing a tight, short dress

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunts who think

It’s okay because you said

You’d have a drink with them

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunt who thinks

It’s okay because you did it

A few hundred times before

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunts who told you

It was okay because you were drunk

And he couldn’t have known

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunt who told you

It was okay because you led him on

And shouldn’t speak to strangers

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunts who told you

It was okay because he loved you

And you loved him

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From the cunts who now tell you

It must be something about you

But I can’t.

I wish I could protect you

From this world that’s blaming you

And not the cunts

But I can’t.

They’re doing the same to me, too. 

Inside/Outside

There I go again!

Getting confused,

About what’s in my head;

And what’s outside of it.

Seed of an idea in my brain-

Should I get it surgically removed? Is that the answer?

In my brain, in my brain,

The physical location.

In my mind, in my mind,

The metaphysical location.

How do I tell the difference?

Do I keep my thoughts inside or outside?

Do they exist until I voice or act upon them,

Or are they in a void that doesn’t mean anything?

I imagine them part of an inky black universe, little fireflies flitting about;

I catch them one by one and they come to life as I:

Put the kettle on, discuss God, kiss you on the lips…

My mouth is a net to catch and swallow, my fingers hooks, my legs anchors-

Adrift in the sea of the abstract, are all the things I’ve ever thought, will think or can think.

Capture inspiration, make it real!

My body is entirely outside, I suppose anyone can see;

I just get confused because my heart beats and blood flows and it feels like part of me;

But they aren’t made of the same stuff as love, joy, sadness, despair,

They are merely affected by it.

There’s no way to fully express things that come from the void, the sea,

Those little fireflies go out, diminish the moment I catch them.

What hope do I have, between two worlds?

I can feel, and there is reconciliation as I touch my heart to show that it hurts,

As I shed tears to show I am overwhelmed,

As I run away to show that I am afraid,

As I touch you softly to show that I care,

As I repeat what you say to show that I listen,

All is empty without illustration.

For what is the use of love if no-one ever knows it?

If you keep it, cherish it in your special sea-like void,

With all the other ideas, thoughts, hopes, dreams-

It’ll get lost there

And you’ll forget how to find it again someday.

I try to catch every firefly and write its soft, humming story down

It’s impossible, but I try to listen

As its light slowly goes out I try to make it real on the outside.

I try to make the inside real on the outside.

Make the inside real on the outside.

Inside real on the outside.

Real on the outside.

On the outside.

The outside.

Outside. 

Rain

I wrote this a few years back, but it's always been one of my favourite little snippets of story. I thought I might use it in a wider context but that doesn't seem likely now so I thought I may as well publish it here!

It was raining but I had decided not to care. I let the raindrops hit my face and drip off the end of my nose with no attempt whatsoever to keep dry. I was cold, wet and shivering in my thin jacket and my bag was getting soaked through. Still, I stood there stubbornly; waiting. I refused to let this abysmal weather have any effect upon me. It suited my mood, at any rate. The rain would have hidden my tears if I had been crying, but I wasn’t. I probably should have been. Only, I just felt kind of angry.

I watched the heavy raindrops race one another to the ground and pool together in great puddles and streams which led to the drains. My hair was plastered to the sides of my face and I tossed my head back irately. My hands were in my pockets in an attempt to warm them, since I’d noticed a few minutes earlier that they’d changed to a rather strange purple colour due to the cold.

The trees above me dropped the water from their leaves onto my head occasionally. The cars would splash through the puddle just in front of me in the road every so often and soak my tights. It was an altogether unpleasant situation, but I adamantly refused to let it get to me. I watched the bright lights in the windows of the semi-detached houses. The water torpedoes must have been making a racket on their slate roofs. I listened to the sound of them falling all around me; not the soft sound of a waterfall or the flow of a river but the harsh staccato as they hit the houses and streets with renewed intensity. It looked as though a sheet or veil was falling in front of me. There would be thunder soon.

I looked up and down the street but saw no one outside their cars and homes. Why would there be anyone? Who in their right minds would be out in this? He was such a bastard. He was such a fucking bastard. I would actually kill him when I saw him. Then resurrect him and kill him again.

I leant heavily against the wall behind me, sighing with impatience. Why had I even bothered to wait this long? He clearly wasn’t coming. Yet I couldn’t make myself leave. I was far too irritated to do anything but stand there and brood. I was restless and kept on adjusting my weight from one foot to the other, folding my arms and unfolding them, pushing my hair away from my face and occasionally cracking my knuckles. I couldn’t concentrate on a single thought; my mind was racing but thinking of nothing in particular punctuated by the odd ‘what a fucking bastard’.

I saw a figure emerge at the end of the street, tall and hooded; obviously male. That was him all right. I could tell by the way he swaggered down the road towards me, taking his sweet time about it. I stood up straight, folding my arms again and tapping my foot impatiently. The minute that he was in ear shot I yelled at him.

“You fucking knob!”

He didn’t respond, but I could tell that he was smiling; that stupid conceited sneer that he reserved especially for me. He was soaked through like I was, dressed in a hooded jacket and jeans which were sticking to his bony legs. He was a good foot taller than I was and skinny as a lamppost; about as attractive as one, too.

He came to a stop just in front of me and considered me for a moment.

“Bit wet, aren’t ye?” he commented.

“You were supposed to be here an hour ago,” I reminded him.

“No, you rang me an hour ago. I had to walk ‘ere,” he said.

“Where’s your fucking car, you dick?” I asked rudely.

“Crashed it,” he shrugged.

“Then why the fuck didn’t you say that on the phone?” I said.

“Didn’t think it were time,” he said.

“Oh Jesus Christ!” I exclaimed.

“You okay?” he said awkwardly.

“Fuck off,” I said, leaning against the wall again.

I pictured her beautiful face when she’d said it. She had been crying but she still looked so perfect. Flawless white skin that was smooth to the touch, though stained on her face by the tear marks. Bright red hair, dyed in stark contrast with her skin, straight and sharply cut to her chin. Plumped pink lips pursed in awkwardness. Great big brown eyes shining with the wetness and long saturated eyelashes melting onto her skin. She had been wearing a short red skirt that matched her hair and showed off her long, thin legs the skin smooth and perfect as on her face. Then she had that black vest top which clung to every curve and a heart shaped silver necklace around her neck that she’d worn ever since I could remember. I couldn’t bear to think of her that way. She was unbearable.

All the memories of kissing those plumped up lips; touching her smooth round cheeks and looking into her deep brown eyes were like torture for me now. He couldn’t possibly understand it; yet he was the only person that I could think of to call.  She had been the only one and now she was gone I had no one else. She had been my best friend and now none of that counted for anything. I was so angry I thought I would scream.

“She broke up with you, eh?” he said, leaning against the wall next to me.

“Yeah,” I grunted. Hearing it said like that put it in perspective a little.

“Why?” he asked.

“She used the whole ‘it’s not you, it’s me’ line. Basically, I’m not good enough for her,” I replied bitterly.

“Never liked the bitch,” he commented.

I laughed suddenly with incredulity.

“You can do better, sis,” he assured me.

I nodded, smiling a little. It still hurt but he made me realise, as he always did, that I was being a sensationalist.

“You crashed the car, huh?” I said.

“Yeah,” he laughed. “Some crazy bastard cut me up.”

“Where is it now?” I asked.

“I dunno. Some place in town,” he replied nonchalantly.

“Fuck. You walked here from town?” I turned to look at him.

“Yeah,” he said.

“You’re a nutter!” I exclaimed.

“So are you, mate; looks as though you’ve been stood out ‘ere waiting for me the whole time. I was half expecting you to be gone by time I got ‘ere!” he was laughing at me again, but I didn’t mind. I was pretty ridiculous.

I stared ahead of me again at the rain. It was still pelting it down full force and I heard in the distance that first rumble of thunder. I smiled. I was going the fuck inside now; I was freezing.

“We going home?” I asked him.

“We can start walking!” he chuckled.

“Oh you little shit. I only wanted you for a lift!” I said, punching his arm playfully.

“That’s balls. You need your big bro to sort that little bitch out, don’t you?” he said, attempting to ruffle my sopping wet head of hair.

“Come on!” I said, starting to walk down the road away from him. 

Bad Artist

I haven't posted here for an age. I'm thinking of a re-working of the blog, but I'll post on here for now.

You think I’ve forgotten you;

But I haven’t.

Uneven lines that make patterns on the skin, as though some ill-conceived design had gone awry,

Some badly drawn art, some art in poor taste.

Such poor taste that nobody understands, or will even look at it without disgust

Contempt:

Attention-seeker

War reeker

Cut down deeper

Light sleeper

Heavy speaker

But God, I remember, don’t worry;

I was the only one who appreciated your beauty first hand,

The ill-conceived designer,

I was,

The bad artist,

The artist with poor taste

With crude methods, unrefined, a waste…

Of a perfectly clean canvas.

Decorate you with the unexplainable,

The despicable,

The unacceptable.

I rebel!

Fuck you!

I’ll give you hell!

You’ll give WHO hell?

I’ll give YOU hell!

Listen, I’m on your side…

That’s for me to decide.

What have you done for me, besides cause me pain?

What have you done for me, besides hold me back?

What have you done for me, besides restrict my imagination?

What have you done for me, besides define who I should be?

What have YOU done for ME?

Happy

Musik: Girl Anachronism - Dresden Dolls
Kleiden: PJ bottoms, cherry top
Filme: Blade Runner (Scott)
Buchen: None


I come from a nation,
Surrounded by the sea
And yet,
I barely see
The rolling waves upon the shore
The rush is of traffic;
Car horns, sirens, alarms,
Everything chaotic, ambling fast,
It goes and goes…
Bright lights flicker in the disallowed darkness,
We are afraid.
But there is greater darkness still than I can imagine,
Behind the scenes
Of the rushing workers
Are the young men with vicious substances,
Knives, and violent intentions.
They’re walking around in between;
The glittering apparel, gluttonous greed, sale-able sexuality,
They are a part of it.
Yet at odds, just as I am-
This life wears us all down;
We’re trying to cope; to be a part of all of this,
The insatiable greed, the desperation for recognition,
Whatever the cost, there must be money involved-
Or else, some kind of tangible objective.
What is it to be happy?
Everything is buildings, shelter, prisons,
Exclusion, cold stone bricks,
And why do you live outside?
There’s plenty of room; our world is inside.
Warm buzz of electronic inclusion…
Are you a faggot? Paki? Spaz? Whore?
All of the above, if that’s even possible!
Oh, should I be fighting?
You see, by merit of my existence
I was not simply handed an invitation to it.
Can I not just be? Must you involve me?
I am so tired.
I think, like all of us, I just want to be happy,
But on this island of intense density
I can scarcely move for seeing pain;
Ignored, patronised, blamed.
My body is not my body;
It is an expression of values, of issues that affect me,
I cannot be rid of the damn thing!
Well, one cannot simply be a mind I suppose.
Weighed down by heady haze
Of voices screaming, hands grabbing, pulling me,
Which way ought I to go?
It is all so dreadfully
So dreadfully
Important.
And I’d better choose right.
And I’d better choose my words correctly.
But not too correctly;
For fear of being laughed at.
I can have a label, if I design it myself;
Here, have some card, some crayons, prit-stick and glitter
Create your own,
Oh no, dearest, not so much of the glitter
A little more of the red shading
We don’t want to be ostentatious now, do we?
I am broken, but that’s okay!
Let’s see, let’s see!
They all want to gawp at my wounds,
Want me to display them,
That I might encourage all to do the same.
Pose naked, ironically
Because the wanker will notice!
And good God, believe what you want,
Just don’t talk to me about it,
Don’t do anything too extreme,
Go about it as though it did not matter at all.
But for God’s sake, express yourself!
Here, have some more card-
You can make us a poster about how you feel.
You wrote a song? Oh, how lovely!
Have a gold star…
Only if you are purist,
If there’s any doubt in your mind, we’ll take it back.
Be a part of something, you simply must,
You were born into it, can’t turn your back,
But what if I want to?
Is that so wrong?
I don’t identify, can’t relate, cannot understand.
I am not like them;
They are like ME.
And fuck me,
Please? What’s the big fucking deal?
If I change my mind, you can rape me;
I was wearing fuck me clothes, a fuck me expression,
Said things that could only mean…
I don’t blame you,
Every single day girls in lingerie
Are paraded before your eyes; asking for it.
I’m just another one of them-
Not real, not real, not real…
And I don’t mind,
Really.
You’re like the young men in the dark,
The minorities,
The people forcing me to fight,
The people I’m fighting against,
You’re like me;
You want to be happy.
For fuck’s sake:
Be happy.

The Burial of the Rat

Musik: Ballad of a Thin Man - Bob Dylan
Kleiden: Hoodie, long-sleeved shirt, jeans
Buchen: The Crying of Lot 49 by Thomas Pynchon
Filme: Shaun of the Dead (Wright)

This is based on true events, but twisted into a more interesting short story version. You must twist reality to create fiction. You must twist fiction to create reality.

The Burial of the Rat

A cloying sound just as I had drifted out of consciousness. Eyes open slowly; darkness, cold and the physical pain of waking. My eyelids sting as I clumsily switch off the alarm. I lay back for a few seconds, resting them briefly. Up or not? Now that I should not I could easily drift away; the irony of false awakenings. Now that the sound of the alarm is gone I can hear the soft smattering of rainfall, throwing itself against the glass pane of my window as if to tease me. You ought to stay in bed. Well, they should’ve used reverse psychology because I am reactionary. I love to rebel and so I open my eyes defiantly and pull my cow-heavy body from underneath my downy duvet.

I hardly slept. I can’t anymore. Sleep is ineffective, at any rate. It does nothing to ease my integral exhaustion. I feel sick again. The sickness, much like the sleep, is there regardless of food. If I do eat it increases the sickness briefly, so I do so sparingly. I mean…I ought to stay alive. But just in case I decide otherwise…well, I’ll get to that.

Stumbling around my room I find the warmest clothing possible because it is unutterably cold in the mornings and I am desperate to rid myself of the awful chill. It clings to your bones, though. It won’t go away until it’s had its fun. I understand but I won’t comply with its terms; long sleeves, hoodie, jeans, a hat, scarf and gloves. I make tea and sip it thoughtfully. It settles my stomach and fights back the chill a little. I imagine the warmth, little flame-winged horses charging like the Light Brigade against the chill cannons. Cannon-fodder. But honourable, yes, and never forgotten.

She’s there but I choose to ignore her. You are boring, I tell her, I have no interest in you today. She smirks at that, but remains the silent spectre. She knows I’ll cave. Horrible thing. She watches as I make ready my bag and leave the house stiffly. Follows me mockingly.

The rain is obstinate. Turn back. I will not. Besides, I have worked too hard for this – read the book and the essay and everything. Word by word, sentence by sentence, chapter by chapter. Though she kept looking over my shoulder and asking me what I was doing and telling the others to make sounds in my ears so that I could not concentrate. I ignored them, and her. I was better than that. Now I would know all about what we were discussing in class and would not be stupid.
I wander down the sodden streets, watching my feet move along in front of me as though I’m not quite sure if they are mine. Squashed leaves, conkers and murky drains. The sky is still dark and cloudy, steely grey. Something small and oddly shaped up ahead, though I can’t see what. Right in the middle of the pavement. As I draw closer I gasp. A mangled corpse, guts splayed out over the pavement, crushed into the ground and almost split in half. It’s soaking and barely recognisable; there is no face. A carcass, disturbingly gory. My sickness increases tenfold. I cannot stomach it, yet this death leaves me a profound sadness.

I move on swiftly, trying to forget the monstrosity. For a couple of hours, I do. When I leave my class I have all but ceased to think of it. She is still following me and has been whispering strange, yet helpful things into my ear. Things that I could not possibly have known on my own. That is why I need her, despite loathing her so. She has all of the ideas.

Having almost forgotten it I am shocked once again by the presence of the corpse on the way home. I cross the road hastily and guiltily. Part of me thinks it might be her doing, but she claims it is not. An omen, then. I’d seen one only a few weeks ago, larger though better hidden. It can’t be a coincidence I’ve gone downhill since then; everything is so connected like that.

I cannot get this morbidity from my mind, even as I enter the comparable warmth of my house. It is too much; it cannot be meaningless, it oozes meaning like thick green sludge. What to do? I can’t just leave you there, poor thing. It seems so awful, splayed out like that across the pavement for all to see. People crossing the road to avoid seeing such a terrible sight. Or worse, gazing at it in perverse wonder before moving on and forgetting the whole thing.

I will bury you. That is what I shall do. It is only right and respectful.

I step outside again with a plastic bag and a shoe box; a make-shift coffin. I go to the site of the accident (that is what I assume it must have been) and stare at the crushed, dead limbs for a few seconds before scooping them up into the bag and placing them into the shoe box. She laughs at me but I take it all very seriously. No death is without significance. Not even yours.

Carrying the shoe box back along the street I am eyed suspiciously. But I believe fully in my cause. This second corpse…what did it mean? Greater toil. But if I laid it to rest…

I walk straight through the house and into the back garden. There’s a shovel in the shed, which I prise out of the tangled mass of garden tools and spiders livelihoods. They can re-build. I bet they have to do it all of the time. I find a nice spot in the garden; soft, damp earth covered with brown, orange, green leaves. I stick the shovel in defiantly and begin to dig. The way the earth shifts is oddly satisfying. Flecks of brown move to reveal deep roots all sticking out in odd places like the sparse hair on a balding man. The hole gets deeper and looks like a proper little grave. I fancy the garden as a cemetery and the house as a church. I think of the Lord’s prayer. O Father, who art in Heaven. But that is all I know.

The hole now being deep enough I carefully lay the shoe box coffin at the bottom. Rising, I take a handful of dirt and scatter it across the top. For a brief moment I imagine what it might be like to be buried, to be dead as a door nail. Peaceful, I’d imagine. At least I am giving you peace, little one.

I fill in the grave with the usurped dirt, patting it down as hard as I can. I scatter leaves over it so that the disturbance is less visible.

So tired. So sick. But I am satisfied. I have buried you. Ha, you’re gone.