Wednesday, 4 November 2009

Funny World #10

I'm starving and I want a suitcase. I went to the bin, but the bin was full so I put it on the bin.

How would you say dear? I feel the need to board up your beautiful eyes so that they stop swallowing me.

You look a mess, a fucking lovely, intoxicating mess that turns my gravity inside out so I rise indefinitely through the clouds, into space, to the corners of the universe. Two asinine planets holding hands.

Such a busy day. I'll cram it so it splits at the seams and a crescendo of feathers burst into the night sky. Sometimes when nothing is happening I feel so content that my bones splinter and my insides reservoir through my gaudy veins.

Try again.

This event initially showed me that even the infinitesimal event can have a grandiose effect on the individual , enough to illicit the sense of uniqueness.

I keep thinking about the little mouse that scurried away from my size tens and brought me a bona fide smile for the first time in three weeks. Come back little mouse, follow me home.

he waits around to teach you destruction, with milky prescriptions and dead light that he once caught in a jar.

Open it, he says. But you're scared.

Just don't forget me.

You open the jar, nothing happens, and you still haven't fucking realised anything. Next time he'll charge you for the privilege of his company

Pull up your socks and fall back into the first person, that lamp post will never answer me.

Try again.

Disparate times call for disparate measures. I could hear the pant of the ballet dancer, an unexpected but most welcome pleasure. I'm sure I most definitely fell in love. Not with the dancer but the convoluted shapes she weaved. She canters.

Her contours kick through the particles of light from the ambulance outside.

After the performance the lift doors open and cracks my conscience back into position. It takes three seconds for the beat of my heart to catch up. The giddy professor claps vivaciously, spitting admiration then quickly shuffling his bird feet forward and snapping his mouth trying in vein to gobble the compliments back into his useless brain.

Sitting on this wet patch just about sums it up. One handed breast fed knitting, whiskey, gin, and David Bowies vomit.

The screen cracks, pissing Andy Warhol into my eyes. I pack my suitcase, one wooden lion and one teapot. At least I can count on ginger tea.

I remember fondly of the days we were impossible and inevitable but I guess eventually the coin had to choose a side to fall on. Pornography it seems is a peddler for dreams. We crawl up the walls and climb down the tree's. My stupid fat words jut in my dust throat.

Try again.

How I long for big lovely nothing. Why the fuck am I walking to the ark, like a fucking ghost? Dragging my kicking and screaming chicken bones. The rain kicks up the stench and night air drawers out the splinters from their brick box's. I'll attach myself to their boot straps, a prime example of the sole of my shoe. Last night I watched her exhale chinese smoke dragons out of her mouth and nose, and it made up my terrible mind. Today I will keep my distance, but only if she stays close.

Lots of things go through your mind when you're glued to the bed. She is a stones throw in either direction from death or glory, and the colour of her brain is determined by the weather.

Have I condemned her to walk the plank?

Sent her on her merry way?

She looked like the ghost of a shadow,

a whisper of a shit winters day.

I untied the rope and set it adrift.

I stayed to watch it sail away.

I've left a few bits behind that are quite important to me, you know, like tickling the past when you just want to forget it.

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