Funny World #8

Today I sat in a tree filled with honey-yellow smiles. There I contemplated serenely with crossed legs and linear desires.

Everyone needs a place of retreat. It's all white noise up here, where I finish off these sketches of the longest connecting wire ever seen. Do you by any chance have a rubber, please, thank you.

The estimated time is three seconds. Silver, golden rectangle, metallic with my name on it, laying docile with all the intelligence ever needed to exist, I'll be floating around somewhere metaphysical, transcending time and space only to end up exactly where I am, two feet wired.

This is the majority of the life-time pie chart.

Little green fly, I killed you because you lied to me fifty seven percent of the time. Now there's an estimated three seconds remaining. Begin.

This mote of dust and a flake of skin is all that it takes to leave me like this. Point the camera, and push me in. Don't move, just smile. You didn't know, but I gazed at memories of you last night, pretending it was three seconds ago. I need three seconds more, but I'm not sure where to get them from.

Paper mountains are tight around my ankles, and I don't think they'll tear.

Do we always have to be synonymous with ourselves? A recurring definition that waits only to prepare for the next three seconds?

So what have we done?

I woke up on her kitchen floor at three o'clock in the afternoon, with a three minute sunlight preview, dinner plates and no inspiration. This has all come to a stand still, and all I can do is stand still. I'm jumping off the carousel and running home, only coming back when some normality has been wedged into my head. I'll leave it out for you to find somewhere. I'll know when it's finished.

Sometimes the world just throws up a colour that you don't recognise, and you have to deal with it, it is the realisation that you are more or less an idea, and nothing else. Give me some fucking words to eat before my feathers fall to the floor, with a digestive system filled with air.

My little May fower, we are mostly vestigial.

Surreal away.

I'm opening myself. Now this social door that never had a handle, has been left ajar. This existential architrave has unmasked what my aesthetic declined to show. I can see your tiny toes poking through, but from the questions you ask, I don't know who you are. Stop asking, please, don't stop asking.

Evaporate my brain because my eyes are raining. You have a calming face that I don't like to see on anything but the sky.

Sometimes I like to float in half filled porcelain boats

Sometimes I like to float in half filled porcelain boats :

A single still from a stop-motion animation, currently in progress.

Soon to be completed and shown in A Nation of Shopkeepers.

The Transcendental Chair

The Transcendental Chair poster series will be available shortly, primarily in A3 digital prints.

(Paper yet to be decided)

Polysemy of words in our vocabulary draws attention to the importance of context.

For example, the noun 'chair' changes upon the context of the conversation, i.e, 'Sally sits on the chair', or 'Sally is editorial chair of the newspaper'.

The first is a subject-object proposition, where Sally changes the state of the chair by sitting on it, whilst the second is a subject-predicate proposition, where the subject Sally is being described as something, as opposed to doing something directly. (Pinker, 109; 2006)

Polysemy aside, this linguistic nuance appears broadly in semiological interpretations of signs and signifiers.

For example, if we take the signifier 'chair', the sign of a physical chair appears in the minds' eye. (in my case a basic wooden chair) Yet by the definition of the individual's own experience, 'chair' implies a rule that all 'chairs' should follow this cognitive pattern, as in empiricism. The paradox lies within the definition.

Chair: "A separate seat for one person, typically with a back and four legs." So, by this definition, a chair has a specific purpose, thusly, for a person to sit on. However, take this paradox;

I can sit on my bed, my bed has four legs and a 'back', it is also designed for one person. Moreover, I can also fall asleep on a chair. So, my dilemma is, is my bed a chair, or my chair a bed?

There are no hard kernels under the semantic shells of 'things'. No object is truly 'in itself' and existent without interpretation, much like a photograph or painting. 'Things' are there simply to be interpreted. Only then do 'things' become 'things'.

To see the fifteen posters in the series so far, visit Ventralisgolden.com

Funny World #7

Yesterday I watched her exhale the fabric of a universe out from her wooden conscience, like the nose of a chinese dragon.

Her thoughts were in a vernacular that dissolved on my lips.

She kissed the air passing through my head, making the blood race to my fingers.

You'll find out, she spoke.

We should stay here long enough to leave our bodies here, I imagined, and watch these nagoy hesitations submerge.

Remember when I tried to convince you that I invented the word 'feck'? Well... you weren't as gullible as I had first imagined. Please, stay away from my organs until you let me know.

Do you ever stop to wonder why you put both feet on the ground? Feel the dirt in between your toes.

Do you like to place three of your fingertips over each eyelid? Well, I suggest that you find out, and give it a try.

Are you just fucking with my head, because I don't like my head being fucked. All I seem to do is wait for this imagined movement that never seems to happen, laminated in flowers.

Remember those purple products you gave me in the garden? They were delicious, all toothy like decorated animal ghosts.

Where do you live now my old friend, moved back and disappearing forever? I asked. By which time you were partly broke and useless.

You are a series of inept eyes, so I am going to buy my own complications.

It's been really nice over these months that I couldn't afford, with all these fawning responsibilities that are becoming older than me.

I’ve removed myself to think about your Indian ink, and the time you never left your coat on my bed.

Maybe I should drink it, let it stick to my gums.

Did you put the lovely into my complete person?

I had a good view of this great thing that I didn't see coming.

This beautiful machine now lays dormant at the side of the road, gathering rust, outlined with a street light, painted by the rain.
The fucking pathetic rain made it all seem so Hollywood - A Hollywood film with a stupid French ending. She did indeed tie my heart strings to her hometown.
It came keen as the last train to Funny World pulled away. A dirty rotten mess and all I could think about was the girl in the red rose dress. That bloody red rose dress! One last denial against the final throws of summer. Sometimes I wonder if it's the cut of her jib or the cut of that dress that determines the level of our togetherness.
Once written, twice smitten. Out of her purse, up her nose, out of her mouth, into the bowl. A beautiful machine.

Failing in a dream in the guts of the beautiful machine.
Bleeding the goat in the guts of the beautiful machine.
Kicking my shins in the guts of the beautiful machine.
Staring at the screen in the guts of the beautiful machine.

For the love of god will you please take this wooden lion out of my wooden grasp and put it next to your wooden heart then you can give me the same wooden look you gave me three wooden weeks ago. Hang some good shame around your neck and spoon out my boiled liver, it’s had enough. Tempted two dead birds ago.
I think they want me to leave.
Pull off your nose and look inside at all the messages I left.
I keep opening this story of markings and smelly memories written on my appendages. All I'm doing is fucking up my tendrils.

Look at me girl, look at what I'm thinking. Nose ring. I imagine taking photos of this indifferent night and lost visions of something special.

Please draw around us both in pen so we last a little longer.

It needs beefing up so do what you want with it. I think we are most probably without a doubt almost definatly genius', I think.

Magic optical nerve, show me something that I don't anticipate, show me now before I go insane.

I'd better just keep writing and stay quiet, or at some point just go home.

Meet me after this whirlwind, all smothered in verbs. I warned you, prepare to be utterly something when I decide at some point what exactly it is that's going on here.

We are particles my dear, and I don't know when I should climb out of the pillow case and slide into the nearest distance.

Funny World #6

Well what do you know. Basically, my head is a bit fucked and it appears that I've shaven half of my face off.

That bloody, crooked fortune teller was right. Though he never mentioned the secret that everybody knows.

I've got a good mind to give him a gentlemanly shake of his hand then spit on his coat tails.

A sly devil grin crept across my face, not dissimilar to that of her ashtray timing. The wind has changed direction.

My function now is to not be forgotten.

I've revealed myself now, brought it into the present tense without a care for caution. This is simple in theory.

He knocked at the door with a slight canter of the knuckles. Jake Stiletto and his San Francisco drawl.

Hello, and I need a cigarette, he said, like a viscous liquid clinging on fingers.

Last night I dreamt I couldn’t find the composure to write my name, I dreamt about the shade of blue I can't see anymore, and with heavy limbs like bridges, I just couldn't swing.
There's no joke, but I think I'm laughing anyway.
The thought of ripping that fucking pasty from his supercilious fingers and breaking all the lovely white pegs in his mouth is making me smile. Perhaps this is the joke that has since alluded me.
Just let me know when you're ready to love me.
You're a dick.
And you're a cunt.
And I like swear words.
This will make you bolt like a whore, I said.
He walked past me and looked blankly at nothing.
I'm going to stay here for a few days I murmured. He knew that I had cried this morning at the state of my life.
Twenty roast knuckle bones and a damp cheek. The pain in my neck is terrific. It seems the taste is not so sweet. Wooden man with a limited yet malleable expression, please don't tell me what your knowledge consists of.
I can't seem to get her off of my skin. I've been looking at photos of chairs all day, which is proving to be a tiring infatuation, but I'm feeling pretty good about myself. I can feel it coming out of my forehead like crushed garlic.
My wooden hands were itching. Sticking my tongue in the skag bag whilst sitting on my own playing pass the karma watching my jagged reflection become increasingly withdrawn, it became clear that I didn't know what was happening.
We sit down in a circular motion and pretend not to look at each other.
This is a brighter shade of real, I thought, that could easily break at the slightest of touches.

Funny World #5

Twenty, ten and nine. It's nice to think that everything will be perfect, it's what makes life beautiful and not realistic. It's a pleasantly stupid trait to have.

I'm going to think about making a plan, sit backwards on the floor up against gravity like a dog chasing its tail that sums up my life better than I can. I hate it.

I want to marry the wall and pretend I am that girl in Holland.

Mag ik in je naveltje roeren? No, I didn't think so.

I will sink with this ship into boredom with a hard flower and dust. I've been busy on my own planet for sometime now and I'm still not entirely satisfied with my efforts, maybe I should build a bridge and make fresh tea, and everything will be alright.

There are only so many personalities to go around before they start recurring.

Cut up interactions form my last option. I may as well take your hand or eat your face, then perhaps you'll get the point.

Give me back my mind from under the fridge. I want to hold up the planet to the sun and give it something to think about. She's just the same again and again, this self esteem is a state of mind, and I don't mind if I look like a state. If I bide my time for one second too long then maybe I'll sleep tonight.

Repeat the opening sequence and finish.

I get the same comfort from thinking that I'm not thinking what other people are thinking. A constant irony existing in a state of flux. Can I get you anything else?

I didn't give much thought to what came before this, I said.

Will someone shave off my eyebrows and staple them to the wall so I can see my own expression, lost and stupid.

Fuck Paris, I'm not going to fuck this culture. I'm looking for a place, a little village hiding what it never sees. This is fucking massive, he proclaimed. It's people like this you have to feel sorry for.

I didnt respond. Golden beard watching me, feed me a piece of my ego so I can choke on it, dead sweet.

If you want to talk really stupid, you can carry your conversation kicking and screaming to the pavement and throw it into a bush, I said.

At this point I'd noticed I'd had too much coffee and cocaine.

I'm from the other side of the world, backwards and never in the first place. I'll find this amazing outside somewhere.

Skinny love, everything is the same and forgotten about, cut off and cut up.

I look in by myself and find another version smiling at the ceiling with artex dimples wandering everywhere towards you.

Hello I repeat hello I repeat hello I repeat hello, do you have the time? Well give it back so I have an idea of where I'm going.

I met an African drummer that seemed to be the right thing to do at the time, now it's all a blur that didn't break this happy pulp or joyous mode. A gag reflex and a strange composition is not always better, and this proved to be expensive.

Carlos keeps selling this coke, and he doesn't really think about walking around scared. His eyes don't feel like your face keeps smiling at you, and you're just not thinking.

Leaves were falling as I left the house and headed down the street. I held out my hand, instantly catching a stray leaf from its branch. In that instance the entire world had altered, and I placed it in my pocket.

I think I'm going to strike up a residency because I have no time to do my job. I fucking love you and I want to know what I want to know.

I'm on a train to meet a few years that I've lost. I turned it down before and now I'm wasted, in the corner with people looking at me mucky, and inside a toilet.

But I'm not complaining.

I couldn't give a fuck, just give me an exact time because I don't know myself well enough after twenty two years. How do you not know someone after so long? A stranger to myself, a musical where I don't know the words in a shadow of my own hand.

Listen to me, both of me, do you hear me? I am moving together and apart in an apparent tradition, and I'm going to stay here for a little while longer.

Get the cocaine main in the right hand pocket of the leg, take it off and show nobody.

I had no idea what he was talking about, Antoine Artaud, watching me through a sullen expression.

I stared into his head at the blonde girl with cat-like visions. Beautiful feline, I want to know what your lips are perceiving, cleaving the air as a bird in motion velvet, and walking the sky spinning circular. Where have you gone, green neon square stood outside climbing walls like a scorpion. Touch me so I can feel your sting sensation, raped by a sherbert dip and smiling without knowing.

Come and find the next lovable string along so admirable, left as clear as blue smears on our skin. I'll probably look back on this and laugh, but not before I've mopped these floors and not too soon after I've forgotten the moral of the story.

The sky looks warm with viscous diddles and I have some good news for you. Don't let them slip you their dirty limericks. He spoke softly.

Didn't we say we were going to New York for Christmas?

I am 95 percent vinegar and pith, possible 5 percent water when writing my brain down.

My eyes were animals that needed feeding.

Like the sun setting over water, I can see more and more doctors that look less and less sane. I'll try to be proud inside this line between brilliance and stupidity.

Take off your surgical gloves the dissection is over.

What did you find? He croaked.
I found nothing, I simply replied from inside a cave of smoke.
Well look harder.
But my eyes are stones for you to hold. Take them, I don’t need them. There is nothing worth looking at anymore.
The words left my moist lips like sounds entering the nostrils of a venetian mask, briefly catching the underside of colours and light, before disappearing forever.

Bruce Nauman

Much of Bruce Nauman's work is characterized by an interest in language, often manifesting itself in a playful, mischievous manner. For example, the neon Run From Fear- Fun From Rear, or the photograph Bound To Fail, which literalizes the title phrase and shows the artist's arms tied behind his back. There are however, very serious concerns at the heart of Nauman's practice. He seems to be fascinated by the nature of communication and language's inherent problems, as well as the role of the artist as supposed communicator and manipulator of visual symbols.

Nauman also cites Ludwig Wittgenstein as one of his influences.

South America Triangle and Diamond Africa are variations on a theme, loaded with abstractions that hint at sinister, totalitarian behavior. In both sculptures steel I-beams create small, harsh, spare, controlled and controlling spaces. Both feature upside-down chairs hanging in the middle of the I-beam structure, references to a person who is lost, trapped, and tortured -- or a stand-in for many lost, trapped and tortured people. All of the elements of Nauman's sculptures hang in mid-air, a metaphor for a nether-world that might be inhabited by cowed colonial subjects or post-colonial people ruled by a dictatorial or other kind of unjust regime.

(ArtsJournal)

William Burroughs : Cut Ups

Just look out of your window, take a walk down the nearest street. Do it again.

The nature of such seemingly banal activities are peppered with varied means of interpretation.

Your walk down a familiar street becomes increasingly unfamiliar the more times you walk it.

Attributes become transparent as idiosyncrasies are reduced to a means of getting from one point in space to another.

You see a gate made from old parts of a bicycle, a hand written note with the suggestion "learn how to park, you prick." tucked on the underside of a windscreen wiper.

Absorb them.

You see a familiar face without a name being sliced into two as a car accelerates past your vision, only for the familiar stranger to reconfigure into their original shape, and disappear through a door way.

Although you won't possibly know it, this street will never be the same again

William Burrough's Cut-ups system of creating new forms of media often work in a similar way.

Literature taken from other writers such as Ginsberg and Orlovsky, and varied pieces of film footage and spoken prose are torn apart (sometimes quite literally) and reconfigured to manifest the same familiar strangeness of common affairs.

Just look out of your window, take a walk down the nearest street. Do it again.

The nature of such seemingly banal activities are peppered with varied means of interpretation.

Your walk down a familiar street becomes increasingly unfamiliar the more times you walk it.

Attributes become transparent as idiosyncrasies are reduced to a means of getting from one point in space to another.

You see a gate made from old parts of a bicycle, the hand written note tucked under the wiper blade has gone, so too has the familiar stranger.

You see a cloud straight above that resembles a walrus wrestling a lion.

Absorb them.

Your recognition of the street you knew has altered, but goes almost unnoticed.

You feel different, but the same.

Diary : Chuck Palahniuk

'Diary' is a novel written in the style of a comma diary by protagonist Misty Marie Kleinman for her husband, Peter Wilmot, who throughout the story remains in a vegetative state due to what is thought to have been a failed suicide attempt (this later transpires to be a failed murder attempt by Peter's father, Harrow Wilmot).

Misty Marie Kleinman later discovers that she is a pawn in a large conspiracy orchestrated by the inhabitants of Waytensea Island.

Every four years, an aspiring artist is lured to the island by old jewelry, then to marry and bare a child, only to have her child 'killed' by the locals in order to inspire the artist into a frenzy of creativity.

The jewelry instills a false self importance in the protagonist, as she is made to believe the jewelry was hers in a previous life, whilst all the while belonging to Maura Kincaid and Constance Burton, the unsuspecting artists of the eight preceding years.

The conspiracy culminates in a large exhibition of the artwork, where a deliberate fire is started as a means to receive an insurance payout, and to prevent tourism at Waytensea Island for the next four years.

This story is littered with quotes that delve into a theoretical psychology of the creative mind, and highlights the correlation between tragedy and art. From Immanuel Kant (Gout) and Vincent Van Gogh (Bi polar, depression, alcoholism) through to Edouard Manet (Syphilis and rheumatism) and Claude Monet (Severe depression after his wife died, inspired him to paint water lillies).

When you can't understand the indifference of the universe, art usually transpires.

"What you don't understand, you can make mean anything."

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?

Oren Lavie : Her morning Elegance

Possibly the best stop motion animation I have ever seen.

Max Ernst

""The expressive possibilities of collage seem so simple that one is tempted to think that anyone could employ them to equal effect. Yet when one reviews the works of this early period - the printer's plate prints, say, those compositions made with the aid of old line blocks found in a printer's shop - it becomes obvious that Max Ernst's brilliant accomplishment consisted of having developed a syntax by which the employment of this found material could be controlled. For all their independence from traditional artistic techniques and the imitation of nature, it is surprising how much stylistic unity these works evince. Thanks to his stylistic syntax Ernst created recognizable links between the works, which form a coherent sequence. Criteria of choice and criteria of employment are everywhere in evidence. Indeed, the effect of every Max Ernst image depends largely on the fact that it sets its own limits. One might add, as a general principle, that the collages and frottages (and the painting and sculpture derived from these techniques) arc so astonishingly effective because their creator succeeded in placing conscious restrictions on the arbitrariness and amorphousness to which such semi-automatic techniques all too easily lead. Ernst not only created individual, disparate works; more importantly, with the aid of variations and series, he simultaneously created the climate in which these works live and breathe. And one should note that it was a climate his contemporaries found almost unbearably bracing. In an announcement in die schammade for the portfolio Fiat modes - pereat ars Max Ernst characterized himself, in an untranslatable pull on the German word for uterus, Gebarmutter, as 'der gebaervater methodischen irrsinns', the male mother of methodical madness. If we take 'methodical' to be the operative term which reveals the essence of his procedure, we have the precondition for the fascinating developments that now began."

(Artchive)

Hannah Hoch

Hoch's impact on Berlin Dada was profound. She was a master practitioner of photomontage -- a technique that all the dadaists adopted. With its roots in the kitsch tradition of splicing heads from family photos onto magazine pictures of ideal soldiers or angelic women, photomontage took images and type from the popular press and combined them in ways to reveal the fissures that ran through middle-class ideology.

Hoch's most famous work, "Cut with the Kitchen Knife: Dada Through the Last Weimar Beer-belly Cultural Epoch of Germany" (1919), is a 3' x 4' collage bursting with images of German industry, military figures, and recreational gaieties. Amid these pictures, the word "dada" cuts like a knife, exposing the ludicrous contradictions that were Weimar. Other works such as "Hochfinanz" (High Finance) directly critique the connection between bankers, industrialists, and the military.

(Art and Culture)

Joachim Schmid

Using other people’s (often mundane) photographs, he creates artwork that is alluring, intriguing, and captivating. He revels in photographs that other people lose or throw away in public, especially if they seem to have been discarded with some animosity or intense feeling. He is very much a modern day anthropologist who tries to understand contemporary cultures by studying its visual garbage.

(Lens Culture)

John Stezaker

"Breathing new life into photographs salvaged from forgotten film archives and obsolete magazines, John Stezaker intuitively transforms these found portraits into otherworldly, uncanny beings. Playing with our fascination with the face, Stezaker’s subtle yet unsettling interventions toy with the subconscious and the surreal.

Using a manual cut-and paste technique he continues the rich history of collage by dissolving the naturalistic picture plane and constructing a fragmented and dislocated view of contemporary reality. The individual images fuse and separate before our eyes, opening up new characters, relationships and meanings." (Stills Gallery)

I think this may have possibly been a daydream.

Eleven, ten and nine. Boredom hits this infertile awareness.

Will someone please tell Gustave Flaubert to stop touching the lamp shades? ...otherwise the phasers will have to be set to 'kill', as per Picard's instructions.

Thank you.

Harry Everett Smith

Harry Everett Smith's long term friendships with many of the Beat writers led to the release of Allen Ginsberg's First Blues in 1976 as well as unreleased recordings of Gregory Corso's poetry and Peter Orlovsky's songs.

Most of Everett's significant artworks materialised in the form of video's that synchronised with music, often inspired by the none objectivism of Malevich and the Suprematist movement.

Jan Svankmajer

"Švankmajer has gained a reputation over several decades for his distinctive use of stop-motion technique, and his ability to make surreal, nightmarish and yet somehow funny pictures.

Švankmajer's trademarks include very exaggerated sounds, often creating a very strange effect in all eating scenes. He often uses fast-motion sequences when people walk or interact. His movies often involve inanimate objects coming alive and being brought to life through stop-motion. Many of his films also include clay objects in stop-motion, otherwise known as claymation.

Food is a favourite subject and medium. Stop-motion features in most of his work, though recently his feature films have been including much more live action sequences rather than animation.

Many of his movies, like the short film Down to the Cellar, are made from a child's perspective, while at the same time often having a truly disturbing and even aggressive nature. In 1972 the communist authorities banned him from making films, and many of his later films were suppressed. He was almost unknown in the West until the early 1980s."

Funny World #3

These walls are pissing people and liquid, both persisting on touching my shoulder, dribbling an intense feeling of vertigo limbs shaking and nagoy lips that float past my left tiffy viewer.

I stand nervously for ten minutes then sit and fall asleep. I can feel my heart beating outside of itself, am I still awake or is this idea just caught in my teeth?

There seems to be a crease in your sun, and all this time I'm gluing feathers to the moon, losing touch with these walls and becoming desperate for answers, I'll build a desert for all these thoughts.

A mirror looks at us both pretending, squirting skulls when it seems therapeutic. It hurts to know that Roman Polanski and Jean Luc Pickard hide in my head, provoking a broad and inclusive mind with lines per inch and a colour theory that tastes like shit. it's all a bit alien to me, let's just react and start to think that this is healthy.

Why have I not seen you? We are shooting up all this matter from a single source and all this seems to be actually happening now, all sprinkled with icing incorrect, sayings and falling diamonds. I'm losing interest in all these sharp folds. My beholding fingers and endless juxtapositions make it very hard to see things correctly.

If I write my name on you, will you belong to me?

She is everything at once, scattered and connected like azure seas and impossible birds. She looked like a velcro feeling, a disparate illustration of everything in between. Come back twice as strong, she said, take responsibility for anything in this surge of bezoominess.

She knows about these two kinds of visual emotions. The first time I called, she asked if we were miscommunicating or if I felt the same.

I wanted to hold you in this infinitely blissful electricity with emotional fingers and erupted words, but you never happened.

To see all these horses and numbers absorb the atmosphere and project it into fuck all, I don't even know what to do but at least I have you, little sausage cat, laid underneath that door. Meet me with a bunch of words from an intellectual document, entitled, watch what you're not so good at, internal cares and external somewheres-down-the-line, give me power and things that sometimes stop me from being.

I sit there stewing outside my head, eating nine pence noodles. I adore her.

Call me so I can feel that uneasy warm feeling again, I've not seen you and you haven't seen me inspired, and that's just the trouble, your beauty makes me stupid and I'm chasing this little touch of regret.

I love you, my secret whispering.