Thursday, 15 October 2009

Funny World #4

Fourteen, ten and nine.

And now look at me how you would normally look at me.

Sitting on the floor watching the glow clambering through the window, standing fully clothed in the shower searching for it's fingers; broken teeth, broken sink, broken glass, broken tiffy ball. Holding a mirror to the ceiling desperately searching for answers.

Holding her close at arms length for just about forever. I wanted you to know where my head is. It's on the top of my neck.

My heart ignites and there's an awful smell of good times with a persistent sense of immolation, and I can't even see properly.

Congratulations, smiling girl, drinking tea, this means a lot to me.

Im floating when I imagine you, she said. Her eyes are medicine and I'm already addicted. These fucking insomnia tea parties are driving me insane.

I know I've been waiting for something, and it is this vision that I'm keeping closest.

Do you feel as if I like your sense of demeanor, as it pirouettes in dizzy kisses, lighting the room like a carrousel, all wind and symphony?

Yesterday I walked into the room behind my physical, to find myself holding court with a head full of locusts. I entertain the glamour of a roll up and try to forget the creak of the Arbourthorne. The fruitless blossom.

We go back to our separate internal spaceships and my hands feel like palm trees. It's not long until I feel that I'm at the beginning again.

Spare wheel, should I ever leave this?

With one away on a toilet, and the other sifting for diamonds in an invisible shower, I calmly and precisely comb my moustache with an electric toothbrush, whilst I gaze through a reflection of unfettered contentment.

Do I ever have to leave this?

I gather all these loose minds from the tiled floor and leave this strangers house past stares of strange rubber faces and varied spheres.

My lips giggle like a complete mess, with my own colours.

Thirteen weeks alone but only eight minutes apart, I see that the morning is all over the floor.

I've grown so sick of my childish candor, but I think you mean a lot to me.

Tell me, spare wheel, do I ever have to leave this?

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