Sagash

Tumbling empty spaces
twist and turn
the platform in my head speaks tomes, quick, thousands
beating out the rhythms
of the lights behind my eyelids- just pinpricks
rainbows falling behind you,
beat it out, beat it out, and another, and how many can you take
before they shrivel up spent?
Lives plaited spread in my eyes and I'm watching a girl behind glass,
she beckons to the person stood behind me
a beetle
a cactus
and nobody can hear me, as curling sensations hold my body in rapture
so weak, pushing a sheet
doesn't cause a crease.
My childhood toys have had their eyes removed but limbs left
black dots circle my bed
I want to cry in their eyes, not mine,
cascade of cotton wool liquid drowns my metre of space-
boys lying on the floor, tiny shrunken boys.

Sand and concrete fill my head,
High rise lawyer wants me dead,
Culture conquest at an end,
Jesus won't you be my friend?

Apnoea never came close to these rattling dirges,
chemistry left me empty handed and my body disappears,
leaving my head and hands separated-
a mother? A grip? I'm so distant
and I know you're further still- beyond choking supermarket patrons
pricking the hairs on the back of my neck.
These things don't reflect in the vacuum of hours
in which forever and I sleep together, protected. Rubber just removes reality.
Enormous rodents pick apart my head
and wonder what it's good for,
plant eyes on my back
and twist nails into my kneecaps, thigh, the back of my hand,
I focus on specific patches of my skin
the patterns whirl and disperse when I watch them too hard-
the hairs refuse to stand up any longer
I am pneumonia,
hidden in a tree trunk.

Ranking amateurs by their own admission,
there is no truth in recognition.
There is no poetry in language-
no life in my text messages-
dead leaves.

Defiant bastards stride beyond my peripherals into screens
tell me I'm wrong and sick, my first person absorbs even vampiric-pseudo-kindness.
Racking brains leaves only bars to swing from in the night time
sniffing with only a wall to hide me
back into Toyland.
You're still outside of here, in the commune,
waiting for word from God. She's misogynist busy.

I asked my mind last night, and he said very clearly,
he said he's not sure how we got here,
but it's so bright it must be good.
There are gorgeous trees in the distance I see
and enormous ocean
animals love me, blue beautiful and pretty giggle cupflosscake: welcome!
I am Snow White and I am immortal,
we're going to be here for an awfully long time, so settle in, it'll change to suit your mood,
your consciousness was caught on a rock, that's all,
this is the sparkling waterfall.
Desert to the East will give you rides on dunes piled on top
and we all feed from electricity here, resources will run out, but we can't perish,
there are huge turquoise ferns waving purple rivers rushing over motionless fish
their bug eyes don't swivel except in winter when the ice contains them-
the rainforest smells good
and there are no civilisations except the ants, which coincidentally, are edible.
We all wear dresses all the time
the church bells chime
for eucharist wine
your cornea will scream
for our scenes,
it's perfect and forever
perfect and forever
perfect and forever.

Lalaaa Giraavaru

I didn't drop off the face of the earth, I just went underneath for a while.

Hello real world, I didn't miss you one bit.

Back to notepad.. I've got a couple of little projects up my sleeve for when I get back into Brighton, watch this Floetic space. I need a handheld tape recorder. I'm sure there's one in the house, it used to sit on my bookcase but it ran away... Also, a brown paper bag.

Lex asked if I would do something with him. Maybe I will try writing something for it.. Or should I wait?

Swapsies

In me, I'll be in you, making white line boundary
signals of stretch where I fit in,
don't want no blue eyes, I want yours-
rip the scalp like velcro noises that I miss, kiss your innocent pale bone on top
and take your hair, too,
short or long bright or dull he'll love it:
bags of lipids leaping over fences- you have mine,
share with me all you know-
and this must be love because because
now I'll really be L G B T
never felt before I guess you're tighter than me too
and what love doesn't seek a perfect, opposite, symmetry..
leaking a little, your socket swivels and I'm sick
of you now
inside me
it went topsy turvy, I might be patched up
with your pretty qualities
but now I've got your ghost on the brain, pinching with tweezers
from your make up bag, picked out nail polish around smut sinks,
mess is so OUT THERE-
she knows these parts don't fit:
synapses reject my thighs, not enough ripped off-
my face, nose refused to detach-
this brain, there's not enough.. grey or.. white- it's red,
haemorrhage banquet laid out
you eat it with what organs I left you
and we're together at last.

Coraly Voy

Black brown covers dash about
pink pony tail ties twitching, stray thin blades
curl up. Move on. She's running over gym equipment, and
all there is, is hair ties, is tiny clothing bought by
guardian.
In a room, another room, thousands of square spaces define
your head, tiny feet, bumping into others,
once or twice
shiny dark eyes see the unknown, void,
in echo chambers always with them them they stand, walk, sit,
talk, push you, your body not shaped
in peripheries I search you out,
my own head emptied in language and horgone
waking dream-
arms like vegetables reach upwards and I am upwards I see them
pick you up, body so light glances at me
and in a moment I'm analysed:
transformed into an elaborate hiding place-
where better to hide than within another?
You stay quiet in my clavicle
I can feel your nose nudge, erratic breathing,
nails too short for sharpness rather exfoliate
for seconds I'm a mother. And yours. Yours now found deep down.
Instructors abort you for the next way to fill your day-
Caesar's scissors on my chest cut lightly bleed milkshakes-
shoulders break.
Tiny badminton life.

Who wants a pretty picture, then?

I've been talking to Lex about starting a comic... He doesn't want to draw of course, so I've been playing around- god it's been a long time, though. My skewed sense of proportion almost makes me want to get the oil paints out and check I can still at least control the muscles in my hand... It's funny how just living your (my) life is probably the biggest obstacle to perspective!

Never mind. I'll be back in Brighton soon, and I'll start life drawing again, and then there'll be no excuse for these messy JTHM inspired stick figures. No more whining to the Samaritans about how my life is a dead end uncreative ditch. At least the poems are still coming in some form or another. I did think about stopping. But then there really would be nothing. Or rather, just one more thing to whine about.

In the mean time, can somebody please do a riot grrl cover of You're Gonna Miss Me by the 13th Floor Elevators? I've been dreaming about this for the past week or so.

Dirty words.

Purkinje Evangelist

No month, decade, moment is cruel, horribilis-
Fur coats wave wands at admirers
blaming,
ruptures in nerve endings cause knee-jerks denting suds
sending the spine into g-forces, axis,
organs bump skin-
but no tick clock caused a baton brought down
on your language. Your tongue,
made it.
And whilst I wither on the sidelines of interaction,
I'll make my own time boundaries-
blank clock faces twisting into letters-
the dream train headbutts willow branches
bending them to submission,
stewardess offers drugs
and John and Yoko fuck on your white walls,
girl bends backwards, dragon head-
tiny buzzing of lilac insects licking.
Snail pace catches up to my forehead
and leaves slimy trails that mutate
into gods.
They leave when they're done, declaring abstinence,
enjoying bright stings in the choroids
tearing up manifesto after manifesto beating down
like the monsoon that never arrived,
papilla punctures,
atarres aro, atarres aro, atarres aro,
starves the head.