Half-paradise lost

I walked before crawling; I was told
many years later that sad people do.
I lost before fighting; I found out
many years later that sad people do.
I was sad when I was happy and I never knew
how close to the core of the Earth my heart stopped
when I started my descent.
“I drew my own eyes and they were sad,” I said.
“They were sad, my love, and I was crying.”
He was quiet, buried deep inside our mutual self
as one crashes in a mattress of lust and love
respect and the epitome of absolutism.
I failed before trying; I was told
in the mirror, mere minutes later
that cunts like me do. I laughed.
I’ve gone and spoiled the perfection
of unabashed symmetry.
I’ve gone and killed the legacy
I was to leave my children.
They will now have to gift themselves
to the world who moulded them.
Martyrs on the crosses of boxes
they tick at the doctors.
I fucked before I knew how to love.
I wish this was a lie, but I was told
many many years later
that old souls do.
Whether this stands as true
or falls into the lies I’ve been told
remains to be decided.
Peter was a sassy little white collar
standing there and judging me.
He told me in no simple words,
in the convoluted asswiped way
that saints have
that I was tripping balls.
When the sun set for the first time in my memory
I was young enough to wonder
and old enough for my eyes to tear up with the strain.
Someone grabbed my hand in the dark
I like to think it was him, but it’s been
one point seven fuckloads of seconds
since he stopped breathing
and started resting in an urn.
It’s been equally as long
since I’ve stopped living
and carried on as a shell.
I feel tired; the way tired feels
when it crawls up your arms
like an army of ticks waiting to bite
like a battalion of vicious termites
clawing at my wooden limbs.
I was tired before I woke up; I was told
many later that sad people are.
“I felt my veins today,” I said.
“They were like the branches of the oaks
I care so much about. They spread
like tendrils of the love I have for you.”
He smiled. I hated him those days.
“Do you know if you knot your veins together
you might have enough roads
to walk to the depth of my soul and back?”
“I’d drive,” he said. I laughed.
We fucked that night. We fucked slowly
the way lovers do when they’re written about.
We fucked in the middle of the bed,
where there was enough room around us
to build a home.
I was happy before I knew what happiness was;
I found out many years later
when it slid through my fingers
(the way time does)
that I can never get it back.

A bit after eight

We could be holding each other
or holding the other
or flying together
or staying in bed.
I could be cooking today
or you could be living tomorrow.
On your sill there’s no hate
no lack of embraces, or touches, or hands.
There’s a stubborn mosquito, an insect of sorts:
you tell me, I smile.
There’s something about you –
I’ve already said.
That cloud looks like a dragon, a church
or a wedding.
That dream looks like a handful
of heartache tomorrow.
You ask me, I smile, it’s nothing, again.
You tell me we could go, I start to imagine;
you tell me tomorrow we could be married
I laugh and you frown.
We’re so simple with faces, I know but a few.
You ask and I answer:
a whore
is a whore
is a whore
is a –
wonderful woman
after she’s eaten,
after she’s been given
coffee and fag.
You know me too well
I’m afraid, you ‘re dismissive.
You know me enough.
We could be holding the flowers,
cup them with nails.
I could be wearing them naked
tucked in my hair.
They could be wearing
my skin as a coat
I could be happy
when I’m growing old.



Sometimes you make me smile because you can;
it’s a power I haven’t given to many
and it’s a downfall I have yet to adjust to
and it’s a delicate shower in May when it’s too early to exist
too late to sleep and too vivid to catch.
Sunrises are fitful, bright and dull, with strokes
of bamboo handles glued to natural hair
often sold for quite a lot, and used for little more than
to apply expensive make-up over freckles.
My freckles ¬have sex, absurd orgies dancing on my cheekbones.
My cheekbones can pierce the heart of my lovers;
of their chests, when I try to cuddle them.
My lovers can nestle in the expanse of my hair
(I paint it red, like a sunset and a Bloody Mary)
when the world is real and cruel.
My poetry can go fuck itself, she said to me, and I laughed.
No, you vengeful bitch, you can’t –
let me stop you right there.
Let me stop me right here.
But my darling, wonderful man,
if words were to slide off my pages
off the occasional lazy pixel
into the hands of a carer
they would be mortified to find them mostly empty
void of charisma, or talent, or potential.
Sometimes you make me write for you;
it’s a failure I have yet to adjust to.
A rather good misjudgement, a room with no walls.
My hands, when they swim on your skin
could drown and I would still smile.
Climbing on the entirety of our sleeping forms
I find it hard to breathe.
My poetry is a house with a burnt foundation
paper walls
and a shining roof.
It hides me when I’m sober
and loves me when you won’t.

About bridges and whatnot

People are petty. Mindless, horrible, vicious, little failures. Examples in reasons for the publishing history of so many books articulating just that. It couldn’t have been coincidence. No, people are petty. Pathetic, really. Do I know I’m referring to myself as well? Yes, of course. It’s one of the reasons I drink as much as I do. Do I think that’s the coward’s way out? Naturally. It could also be brave of me, I can’t tell.

People are petty, mate. They build, slowly and precisely at times, rabidly and hurried at others, brick by brick – they put together their misery and insecurities, hide it all under a high-maintenance facade of greatness and self-confidence. It ends up a monstrous sticks-out-like-a-thumb glass and steel building in a sea of coquettish little individual houses. It is essentially a horde of crazed elephants all shoved in a room, starved, and taunted. All hidden with a bit of make-up, a bit of greatly failing sarcasm, a lack of filter and whatnot.

This is a crass generalisation. My lecturer always said something or the other about generalisation, the exact words fail to come to mind right now, but the main idea is that it’s bad; I should not generalise, and I won’t. But I will. This is not meant to serve academic purposes, or even any major purpose. This is my venting, my way of not walking down the street and slapping a bitch because I can see through the masks. This may very well be considered passive aggressive, and while I am normally “about that life”, it is by no means written with that tone in mind. I’m not trying to send a message. I want to rant. So I am. On my own website. That I neglect. But it’s mine. It’s an achievement of sorts. It’s proof that I can do something – well or not, that’s beyond the point.

There is a subspecies of people that is particularly petty. It’s not the ones who are mean because they don’t know any better. It’s not a defence mechanism in so much as a choice. It’s knowing you are absolute shit and trying to get others to be shittier than you are, so that you can thrive on that. It isn’t uncommon, and if there is anyone who says they haven’t at least entertained a thought about it, not to mention actually having done it, I call bullshit. It’s a natural response to things, yes, I know. It’s in our nature to dislike some others and to choose to fuck them over, for whatever reasons we can come up with. People are petty, hello.

But going so far as to have not only two faces, but about thirty-seven is a whole new level of pettiness. It’s validating yourself by fucking someone over. It’s validating yourself by fucking someone over because you were overlooked. It’s doing something shitty to someone and then building yourself a statue in marble and the tears of your “enemies”. It’s taking that statue and placing it in a highly circulated area, and then taking pride in dogs preferring to piss on your statue more than on the random streetlight and similar structures. It goes past banter or trying to prove a point. It’s hating yourself so much, hating your family situation, the way you were brought up, the lack of money or love or both or everything, it’s being hungry when you were six and taking it out on people in your twenties, because fuck logic that’s why. It’s despising yourself so much you create and feed this lying beast, kidding yourself that you can tame and use it. You can’t. You’re nothing but a pathetic little person with so few accomplishments, with a “holier than thou” smile, and a genuine fear of intimacy. And it’s sad.

And then there’s the rather unsightly human examples of the grapes story. If people ever diss fables, they should be tied down and forced to hear all of them. Because they are quite possibly the most facile way to educate yourself into not being an absolute fucking shit person. But no, that would be too easy. It would make sense. No. Bring on the vindictive side. A metaphorical make your bed and wank in it before blaming IKEA for not coming with a free wanking device. Because your expectation was such, and since the nature of things dictates against it, you must surely find a target for all that frustration. The progression of things cannot be blamed, because surely it is all monitored and influenced by some half-arsed designer who put three planks of wood together and called it a bed; and dared to not give a fuck about the tendency to wank yourself to tears, thinking no one will ever love you. See, I’m being petty and vicious now. I know. I’m drinking about it.

This rant is not even gender based. It’s not about women being vicious (they are), or men being bitter (they are). It’s about people; it’s about humans I have met in this ridiculously little time I’ve spent alive. It’s about someone who’s lived a third of their life (or more if I keep drinking the way I do) and cannot comprehend the entire extend of malice and bad intention. It’s not about that girl who judged my thighs, or that guy who hated me for not doing him. It’s not about spreading rumours like a rather nasty STD. It’s about being an absolute cunt. For no reason.

It’s almost funny. Almost; I’m not convinced to laugh just yet. Because it is so easy for me to care for people. Yes, I know I have shit ways of showing it, and I’d apologise if I gave a fuck. I really do care for a lot of people, and I love easily, and I love with all my heart, and I trust people most of the time. Because I’m an idiot, and because I can’t help it. Because the people I grew up with were caring and honest and it has become a rather unfortunate habit to expect it of people. I already said it: idiot.

They expect it to hurt me. And it does sometimes. And I care a tad more than I should about this tripe. And I in turn resent that, because there are so many beautiful people who pull me over and ask me to smile more often because of this and that. And they tell me that it’s okay, I’ll do better than next time. And that it’s not my fault, or that it is, and that I should come up and accept that. Maybe atone, if need be. And my focus should be on those beautiful individuals.

But it irks me, you see. Because I’ve never wronged someone and not apologised for it. If it was a real thing, not a figment of their rather desperately lacking imagination. I’ve asked for forgiveness for things that were not my fault. I’ve put my head down and called it “my bad” even when I knew that was not the case. Because I cared enough. But I will not bow my head for someone’s vindictive nature. I will not stand and “turn the other cheek” when the first cheek did not deserve it. Maybe it’s flowing through my veins, this absolute need for fairness. For clarification. Maybe it’s my mother’s lifetime of being wronged. Maybe it’s my father’s honesty. Maybe it’s just me. I don’t know. It’s not really important.

I’m waiting for people to stop fighting their battles with still prepubescent anxiety that they proudly call depression in public. I’m waiting for people to grow balls, or a vagina, or whatever phrasing works for you, and have a mature conversation about their issues. I’m waiting for people to stop being so childish as to plunge into gossip and name-calling. I’m waiting for people to stop calling me a cunt-something, or whatever the word of the day is. I’m waiting for people to burn their bridges. Or cross them. Or walk halfway through and jump in icy cold water quoting Kate Winslet. I’m waiting for people to stop having bridges and choose to have a rational mature reaction to them, not to piss all over them, roll around in it, and walk on with little droplets delicately staining the pavement.

I’m waiting for people to grow up, and I make sure that when they do, I will have moved on. I will acknowledge it with a little smile, because it’s an achievement – your first, hurrah! – but I will not be there to care more than that. I don’t like surrounding myself with imbeciles, and sadly, the progression of life entails a shitload of them. Which is why I drink. Again, a coward move or not, I can stand by it. Can you stand by the shameful vindictive pettiness? And if you can, will you like it when you fall face-first in a puddle of maturity and you have to splutter the muddy consequences of your actions? Next, on “I hate myself enough to fuck people over for a brief tingle down to my you-know-what”…

1. Written with no faces in mind, but should you feel this is in any way about you, you might want to reconsider your life choices. Or fuck off, whatever works better. I don’t care. Any issues with this can be taken up with me; I reserve the right to ignore you endlessly, because I don’t tolerate tantrums. I also reserve the right to potentially punch you in the face. Because sometimes I’m petty as well. I’d disclaim this further, but I’m bordering on apologetic, and as mentioned, I don’t have any reason to be.

2. Any errors in this are mine and mine alone. And they have been overlooked because I can’t be arsed. Not tonight, and not at two in the fucking morning.