Purge Gate

Spinning glances glance from lines of light on glass,
they stare into eyes of sheep, red and wrinkled, lines darting
like roots reaching, stretching to grab your own. Home grown,
it's weak to suggest, even, the swab of tissue, white and flaccid,
lolling beside fat metal hard metal and photographilia.
Fuck. You. Don't. Mention. Her. Name. In. Here.
Sent into frenzy spending many on the tips of tongues that
oh so soon wait and tremble in beside cheeks a-quiver and strings
strung along in guitars so unpredictable so touchable,
true ripped fabric just repeats the same dull monotonic autumn,
so sheets of paper flutter onto it and lick themselves, licking,
licking licking licking along to the clunking tune, the bulky beat
of no particular street that I conjur to calm and soothe my aching bones:
techno. Wooden slats contrast to scratched surfaces beneath
elbow. Teeny tiny cakes on teeny tiny pink pencilcases can be copied
and I will stare down at you and feel more alone because you and I are the same.
I I I the autonomous autoroute to automatic hypocrisy this,
this is our issue, and I hated you so much when I heard what you did.
Now it's all we cling to. I want to write about the queen,
in her purple orange green ticket machine, so serene, so clean,
Get off my screen.

Unfinished

I search higher and still all I am confronted with is garlic mayonnaise and a jumble of vowels that mean nothing to me other than a book I once bought as a gift during a festival that has no significance to my own personal wellbeing or, as far as I can tell, anyone else's.
Purple barriers jump up and down and still, do not, move, so many layers purple onions, purple beds purple... jackets, envelopes...
You should probably start there. Probably, because it's fixed somewhere but not here and not in my head. I am putting each broken nail in line according to size and weight and then if they are exactly the same, their serrated edge. Whether they cut to the quick and tongued the only white pain I've ever seen, just, lying there waiting to be ripped. Because they catch in door frames, you see. Door frames can be right little shits if you let them. I've seen all sorts of people, all times and places, they'll see one and run back to their mothers.
So once they're lined up I stand them up, lean them up against each other and it feels like one of those lucid dreams, one of those internal balloon itch feelings, everything expanding and suddenly shrinking so small it makes your skin crawl to imagine it. Torment, my friends, need not break a cell. Let me tell you that. It's the tiny things that upset me. Balloons blowing up and up, they're harmless. Now nails. You must build them into little houses.
I'm lonely, but I hated how your mouth looked in the dark. Gaping hole, raping even everything that wasn't there, sprang fangs and swallowed me whole.

Towards

The end. Of Autumn term, of the year. Towards Christmas. Towards presents towards money towards festivals. I am sick of having unnecessary fat. I am sick of me. I am sick of not being anyone else. Urrrrrrrgh.
Entering the Inferno, you would imagine I could at least write about it.
Changed the name of the blog, it's more fitting.
I wish I was gutsy enough to run away to Belgium.