Saturday, 31 December 2016

Two Thousand Sixteen Going On Seventeen

They all just want the year to end, so that everything that's broken can finally be made to mend. Except, the possibility of reprieve is a delusional blend, of illusion and hope and the failure to portend that at some point everything gets worse for everybody here. Old people die, and young people age and become the beneficiaries of their fears. Just because a number changes on your phone doesn't mean the slate is cleared. Every year is just another equally or increasingly shitty year.

Image result for 2016 party

Wednesday, 21 December 2016

Take It Away

Well I decided to die. Tell James, tell Nadia, tell Tim. Tell them to cremate me and pour my remains into the nearest bin. Let me be carted to the garbage dump and smeared throughout the landfill, let me ruminate, let me be distilled. Let me putrefy, let me be congealed. None of this was really for me, childhood was where I wanted to be. That was the only time I really felt free, being fascinated by flowers and leaves and trees, looking at bugs, mantises and spiders and pulling apart bees. Who in their right mind would want to be adult me?

Sunday, 4 December 2016

Recite

Why now? Why not then? Why can't I move from here, to there, and back again? Why can't I be whenever I want to be, progressing only when the future is something I want to see? I want to be trapped in the past - instead of here hurtling forward and fast. I want to travel back in time and live in that memory, of pitch black nights with bright city lights bathing us in yellow and blue and green. I want to see everything I didn't quite see even though I was looking around ravenously.

I want to live there a while, back when you and I were we.


Brobdingnag

In that respect it was all the same, we'd assigned positions and taken blame, we'd turned our lives inside and out again, we'd taken what life gave us and made lemonade from all the pain. We'd built stairs and walked up them and down again, between descents into madness and ascending back towards sane - of course we'd never found ourselves quite the same. Not since the day that man came, and brought news of winning that numbers game. We were just moths flying self-destructively at the fame, and now our lives were so empty beyond the vastness of our shame.


Happy Fetal

We reach out in the night, fingers stretched to the length of their might, but all the tips touch is not there, just the swirling nothingness of the air. We recoil in awkward, self-loathing spite. And turn inwards. Searching for respite.