Monday, 17 January 2011

something inspired by Tired Pony's song Pieces

Float with me on dreaming oceans
Where you taste the salt and
Swallow away the light of the day
So you make it midnight.

Slow your breath and make it see
Me; look directly in the eyes
Of eternity which weep and so I
Dry them.

Efforts are scrambled like the skies
And understanding of the clouds
Is as limited as how far you can
Thrown the stars; an armthrow away
From the salty seas of another day.

The future feels smooth with warmth
And you look towards a clock which
Isn't there yet; to the point where
You could never forget what used to never
Be and shrug away the small smiles.

The walls crawl with insects which you
Carefully forget and the shoes with their
Laces were always aware.

Friday, 31 December 2010


'But I don't want to go among mad people', Alice remarked.
'Oh, you can't help that', said the cat.   'We're all mad here.  I'm mad.  You're mad'.
'How do you know I'm mad?', said Alice.
'You must be,', said the Cat, 'or you wouln't have come here.
      - Lewis Carroll, Alice in Wonderland.

A mental Home.
An intimidating wall separates the garden of the Home from the world outside.

  Slippery tongues, may make
  Their way, converting past sanity
  From yesterday.

Below those bricks a
Twisted garden spits; the
Writhing world does part its

The clouds do yawn, between the dawn,
And that madness, of dusk.

   The sky does blush.
She says.

The drunken dreams of a
Twisted fiend, resides,
  Just there, behind the eyes.

The wall, is old; and crumbling,
And cold. Misery does fling his might
Between evenings; he howls his growls,
He bares his back,
His jaws, his feet, to a folded sky,

The wall makes you safe,
   They say,
It keeps us well, and fit, and young.
Dare not stray to the fateful place
It keeps us all out from.

Though I find, between the murmers
The whispers remain,
Amidst the rain; I am not

Suddenly the Wall, of bricks; of assumptions
And tricks, begins to stir; the creeping
Beast, doth bear his
Flashing teeth. Flashing,
He flings a quick
Tail across the night.

Then, at despair, he glimmers, at night;
Gilmmers; when it glimmers, first light!
Rearing its dripping jaw, he
makes to make the world,

And your world is encircled. Gripped with
Terror, you are.
  'Behold; but aha!', shrieks he,
  'I am the danger, let loose; a
  Demon, forsooth, and you
  Fear my dangerous grin'.

Around humanity the circle
Extends. 'Is this not your will?' He cries.
'Do you not all feel
Safe, so safe,
Between, above, against this place?'

'I; for it was I!
I, who bore your nameless
Assumptions, and your thoughtless
thoughts! The wall between madness,
And reality;
Reality is sealed,
It would seem, within
The walls, and between,

Yet it always remains.
You all know; I've seen,
Seen, the dreamless faces secretly
Seen; they float; and
Madness, is secretly feared.

Clawing, at the sides, and seams,
It whispers
Softly, in your ear.
  How it begs to be heard.
  A simple chance; a seductive word.

No longer are you kept
Safe, from these split minds, of
Mine; whole worlds, no less.
But you also learn, disturbed,

That it is now you
Who stands walled, between the world,
Which passes by, outside.

And it is
Who is
  Quite mad.
You, who they fear,

And the mind, a visceral
Mind, gestating; the total
World, growing and unseen.
The total mind, of all - is scared;
Scared to give in, to that wicked grin.
Which does claw at the sides, and the seams.

For the mind - the childlike mind;
Knows not of the promises, of the wall,
At all.  And slowly reaches a small hand.

Saturday, 25 December 2010

An arena of jeers, of men,
In scruffs; sheer fear,
And cuts, and slices, and bruised
Too.  I saw.  I saw.  I viewed
Them, the soldiers.  The soldier-men,
With their antics, of guns,  with blood, with
Grimace; their filth, and their fear.  Sheer fear, you
See, beyond the ocean and above
Blue hills. 
  Sailing away, standing high, along
  The circle of the sky.

A circle of whisps,
Of trust and of bliss; away, seeking
But all, along the day.

And I am, sublime;
 Skating along the ice of time,
 Skating along with skates of time,
And on, beyond, to above and to avail.

The tears, of time;
This sorrow of mine.   I peer,
At the fears; the jagged jeer.
Behind its pages I lie,  sublime;

In the book, of time. Once, the entry
An adventurer sought;  he fought,
And fared,  across the
Fields, between the ground and
Above the sky. Perhaps look now
And you shall see him lie,

But know this.  Beware, good
Traveller, of the circus of whisps; the
Quiet place, with whispered jeers muttered,
Against the sky, standing
High.   Beware of the ambling into the past.
  The baby is still now.   Because he sleeps.

Monday, 13 December 2010

Lust's thick mist chokes
A gathering grey;
  Tumbling and galloping,
  Galloping and tumbling,
 Chasing Yesterday.
Note; the paradigm,
Of time - the tasteful rip,
Of skin; carefully eaten away.

An eye whispers; feed
The sound of the senses a
Delicate treat.
A heart; a heart;
A delicious heart to eat.

Breathe the taste of a
Delicious dust turned
Gold. Its eye is familiar,
Though it seems
  Betwixt these tumbling dreams,
  Of me, of you, of the
  Workers, too, it
Creeps by, eye to eye,
And does not breathe. 

Saturday, 27 November 2010


Have you seenher seenher
      I haven't seen her I saw her last but I don't know when it was like
You know the
Context I can't find it

I've lost the context ? the text of con haha yes whatthefuckdoesthatmean funny funny.  missplaced yes missplaced.  I don't know where she went.  
         So she went? 
  Yes went went but I dontknow where haveyouseen where she wentwent?

No?  Why? 
    What do you mean she's gone.  so she just left.  got bored.  upandleft. 

I don't know really really I don't know
      look my hands are fiddling probably means I'm nervous so
                                 so where is she at?

She's there.  somewhere; I know; somewhere.  I think she's
 in hiding

from me yes from me of course don't be silly god.  she is small . she is
lovely.  her eyes I miss her eyes.  there's someone else a bit like that yes someone else
                ohh dangerous ohh exciting
 but its a small flavour of what years of chewing the other one gave me.  the dangerous one is a spice and the main one is a rocket.   har har ha boom.

Eyes, yes, eyeballs yes 'outposts of the brain', yes, I read that somewhere, I did, I read it.   don't you believe me? 
           Me neither I mean I can't prove I read it but its fucking there somewhere don't ask me how.
                    it annoys me because its there but I have no idea what there means.   Her eyes; yes I know you saw them too. 
But I saw them more.  I'd see them once and you'd see them like
a million times and I like would still have saw them more much more.  

Little one; her name was little one; that's what I called her.  I hugged her from behind.  She smiled.

I don't know where she is now or even who she's with probs some guy you know just a douche who doesn't have a heart and has
thick teeth and who she thinks she's found because
     she doesn't know
     what she needs.

I know what she needs though I do I do yeah it's me.  sounds silly I know very silly but
   you weren't there for it all.  six years six years six years is just a number just a number
   but it used to mean something to me.  I don't think you can compress six years of experience just into that one word like
I don't think it works its just a sound your tongue makes and your lips and stuff.  actually experiencing it is a whole different kettle of fish.  
   One look at her would though I just would like to see her again you know out and about even  I'd probably choke up out of pure overwhelment but you know I would know she's still alive and still  ya know

Because she isn't there now she isn't anywhere.  I've lost her and can't find her.  I can't; I've looked high and low and she's just gone.  I tried calling to her to get her to me but it just doesn't work . I don't know where she went,

...maybe she ran off and found something and she's just happier there then back here with me who she walked to the woods with in the first place.
I want to see her though I think I need to what she's done to me is ridiculous.  #
I'm a babbling wreck.  
She has wedgied my reality with a latent psychosis and she knows she has but
     she knows what she's like to and she knows that she feels bad but also actually enjoys not coming back to me when I call, even though I was the one who brought her out here in the first place like
            it was me ya know
            it was fucking me
  the fact that she's here anyway it's because of

this is a long thought yes it's
    rather lengthy.  but then so is her story to me.  an infinite loop circling onto infinity  
  yeah they know that was kinda the point APRIORI
fucking THINK STRAIGHT.   bent thinking is bad no no no no no angles good angles not bent ones; the geometary of cognition
    is a vital thing so so
    hold onto it. 

the tear stains teardrops stains of tears god look at them they're going everywhere now;

my silent tears.  tears come from where I don't know where do you? where do yours come from? what noises do yours make; how do they taste.  mine are silent.  they don't make any noise at all, no, they're too sad.  they come from the world I think; it bubbles them up and belches them out for me and all to see and off they go drift and away and sigh to see a different day.  I see her and I can't breathe.

I'm not sure asphyxiation
   yes I feel suffocated but overwhelmed I'm sure
   she's dead bad for me
   I know she is.  She is kind of like a
  drug really a
  drug I need and want and get all
      over and would be a
   hundred times better off without
 yesyes addiction; I think probably neurophysiology would dictate similarly to drug addiction, I bet it would, I bet it would.  Look, test, touch my brain, poke it; its brainy and squidges.

I touched her brain.  We swapped for a while; pink liquid all changing over and
   going everywhere;
it was a bit gory tobefair, but ultimately I think
  ultimately worth the sacrifice. 

I got to know her and now I see what she sees. 

It was great when I was with her but she's kind of gone now and I feel like I've been left on my own.

A half is almost a whole, almost, but it cant fend for itself; it needs its other one to survive and thrive and shit.  I can't do any of this without the missing half, and she's just fine with it; her half is tougher than mine; beast. 

She's not very tough though not very tough like
  I know
  I know I
   remember how she
  talked and what she was
  like I know its there its IN MY HEAD but
 not here and it
 be cos the world is in my head anyway so why isn't she here if she's IN THERE

teeth and hair and skin and nose and other stuff and bits and things. 
                                                               where are her ingredients? 

  where are her ingredients 

            to COOK yes fucking cooking  boilboil bubbles and stuff

Where is my little one?

Tuesday, 23 November 2010

fan of Dexter?

[softly spoken; perhaps an internal monologue. The ‘thinker’ is surprised / amused at himself upon ‘voicing’ these thoughts. The language is laced with irony].

A lot of the time the answer was in the rain drops – brooding vessels of humanity that they were. [would-be appreciative] Sliding, skirting past. [genuine] The sound of their fall was beautiful. The mellifluous tones(!); beckoning. The rain was nourishing. I watched the trees; [half-hearted] they sigh with the wind. The green below and the blue above. A distant ocean rolls.

The seagulls are speaking. ‘To A Skylark, by Percy Shelley’. Sixth form: obediently comes the memory trace. It is quiet, and swift.

Although all of that has already happened. [would-be surprised] And so it is old. It is the wind that whispers, as such; [relish] my cheek softly stroked. The notion is precarious. That which was, but no longer is; a relentless march onward; ad infinitum. Tense is a word that does not exist. There is no past; there is no future. Only [--] events. The wind’s touch is soothing. She does try.

The trees agree with me; I am probably bordering on psychosis [intrigued-restrained, amused]. What fun. [split] Postmodernist textbooks will tell you that before, light was truth, and now it is in darkness where we find solace. So textbooks can talk.

Emotion is reality. Emotion heaves the soul. Emotion is - the lifeblood of life (!). [serious] Condom brands. Subjectivity, extra stimulating; Soul-heaver, extra protection; Lifeblood; extra large. Life wishes to penetrate you. In all we see, condoms hang everywhere in chains.

I swim in the sea. That is my solace. A graveyard by night.

But then, everything that has come, depends on what came before it. [relished] Nothing escapes a stopwatch. [discovering, delight] None, are, - original. Life is a quotation; followed by a period.

I don’t know if this can be spoken. The pages of history, all together; I don’t think we can discuss the book of reality in a sentence. [would-be serious] More sentences went into the book than the one which sums it up. The balance is, hardly fair. Too much is felt to be described in a small phrase. An etching. People have felt, too much. The world of each person hangs in the air. [recognising strangeness of it] Heavy, but ignored by all. It dangles [relished]on the tip of the tongue. They are never said, vocalised; never given meaning. I can see these stories. I watch them travel down old streets with shops on the corner. Meanwhile the planet spins.

There is much, that hasn’t been done [trail off]. People have, been too shy. They’ve held back. This makes them bad. Should I savour, this memory trace? A trace of memory?

The last word; the pulse. The pulse, [intrigued] continues. Breathing follows; touch ensues. ..What does touch, feel like? [monotone] The bad skin is noticed and the face moves animated. Do you know her eyes. Can you see a soul; can you hear its words. The magic of courtship. I... am envious.


A darkness beckons. It calls. I, don’t really want to answer; but I am going to. A dial turns; the dial turns some more. The infinity is predictably miserable. The oblivion expected. I do not know, yet I am all(!).

Wednesday, 6 October 2010

Literary Psychology.

Y: We start with the Gothic genre, for where else; the Gothic genre is the domain of individual emotional experience; it belongs to Psychology.

Y: We then move onto what the Gothic genre is, exactly, and its relationship to madness.  In Gothic fiction, scenes are swelled from normality and brim with drama - an interesting distinction (albeit ultimately incidental) being whether or not this drama perceived from the supposedly fantastic  exists within itself a priori or indeed whether it is applied perceptually from the observer in question.

Y: Next we irrevocably come to the mindset of the typical Actor in a Gothic context.

X: No quotations?

Y: Who takes pain to use quotations mid-speech?  Quotations, references, and other academic conventions are relics of written communication; their existence and convention being in itself demonstrative on the limitations of human processing in a conversational context; limitations both mechanically - inherent within our psychological machinery - and practically, regards the bewildering subtractive social forces the mind is relentlessly victim to each day during social intercourse. -- Anyway, the typical mentality of the actor.

X: As in, the mentality you think it has.

Y: Given my understanding of it thus far, yes.  The Actor is, at least at first consideration, typically emotionally dubious; reactions to things supposedly deemed 'fantastic' (i.e., dramatic) are apparently somewhat disproportionate relative to the 'value' attributed them in the perception of the same object of most other individuals.  The Actor however sees in them something almost penetrative.  The breath is stolen and the heart is stabbed; this experience of 'being moved' - a giddy, enormous feeling by which such a short phrase hardly does it justice - within day to day experience seems to happen when worldview (expectations and sense of reality applied to the physical world;  'I think the idea of this is beautiful')  and actual experience of that world (when the Actor rests eyes or otherwise experiences something which seems in its existence to support this 'take' on the world) essentially, overlap.

X: How are they emotionally dubious?

Y: Because their mentality - emotional stability, identity stability - seem generally unstable and their hold on reality notoriously slippery.

An apologist for the Actor's mindset would say however that this seems quite in line with human experience; the world is at it is insofar as the many vicissitudes of brain-states dictates: for instance on one's sense of time: if one is sleeping,  high,  or otherwise experiencing an abnormal physiological brain-state different from the day-to-day norm, the apologist would argue that the Actor's reality literally 'is' ever-changing and fluid, and that given such physiological variation and subsequent experiential fluidity, such reality is hardly 'dubious'.   Those with interests existing independent from vested emotional belief however (as is the case with the apologist) - science, in all of its impersonal glory - speak differently.

We notice that the individual differs from the majority in this respect; in their experiential emotional intensity, if you will.

X: [amused] I shall.

Y: Glad to hear.

X: So let me try and clarify; this 'Actor' - the typical character within the Gothic genre, who is (conceptually) perfectly capable of existing in 'real life' -  feels, or possesses a capacity to feel, a greater emotional intensity than most.

Y: Quite so.

X: What else?

Y: [thinks]... In person, they are probably usually quite furtive in general social intercourse; though should nature flash her colours and demonstrate her might - a storm, a fire, a tossing sea, perhaps - then their true colours show and the shyness will dissolve away immediately.  Actually, the relationship between the Actor and nature is an interesting one I haven't yet touched on.

I have said earlier that the Actor feels often vastly 'moved' by 'dramatic' objects.  Nature is the most interesting object of sorts in this respect, and also most formidable - as opposed to say, an example of architecture - usually in its sheer 'naturalness'; namely, that no choice has been involved in its physical location.  It has not chosen to be there, and, arguably - at least to the Actor - has a far greater right to exist and be the way it is and does more than, say, a person who has 'chosen' to be there and act a certain way.  Specifically, nature 'just exists', and the Actor attributes a huge amount of value and respect to this; they feel as though they are glimpsing 'wild and untamed' nature as it is and indeed as it should be.

So, Nature as an object contains (latent) emotional potential.  However, this emotional potential only carries any emotional currency when backed by the incidence of Nature rearing her might; something powerful - as above, say, a storm.  Otherwise, whilst beautiful, I think nature is generally seen as rather innocuous.  A postcard is pretty, not exciting.