down in me

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This is where I kept the little white mounds and in the morning we ate bread. This is where I kept that feeling of having never been so alone, right under the set of mugs with the pictures and the words on them. I don’t know, but this is where nothing much happens until it does and then nothing much happens until it does. The light is always off when you can’t see. This is where the smell has changed. This is where you kept me crawling backwards and forwards like a wind sail. I wanted kool-aid, I really did. This is where I kept dying. I think Britain wants me to be gooseliver pate, I don’t know what I want to be. Over here, this is where our meat kept changing color in the sun. This is where one day you were bright pink. Me I was blue, I have always been blue and this is not me trying to do a metaphor. No one has seen me for days but that doesn’t mean I stopped existing, it’s just the nature of my insubstantial form, it’s just an empty oven in a room, it’s where I am hiding out because what if they don’t come for me?

an arrow points at another which points at another. that’s how we go around, chasing each other like tails.
writing can never be an enjoyable experience for me because writing is either work or therapy.
you can never be an enjoyable experience for me because you are either work or therapy.
it’s like me, mixed up with him and a little bit of another.
it’s like when you toss up all the candy and it lands and some of it hits you in the head.

I don’t want her. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t flow. I don’t want a girl that doesn’t glide weightlessly towards me with a thin smile. I want a girl like gauze. I want a girl that exists in streams, that tears into long strips, that can easily float onto a breeze. I want a girl that rustles soft like paper, a girl that doesn’t spit, that isn’t big, that doesn’t open wide, that doesn’t lie back. I want a girl that’s tightly wrapped and lean. A girl narrow like string, sparse like vellum. I want to feel her perpendicular, outstretched, reaching from her slight core far outwards, miles and miles of her, reams of her, taut and fine.

feel like a mass delusion. feel like a tree, feel like going into the atmosphere with my friend milky and saying ‘fuck it’ to the stars because really, who decides when light is to reach the surface of my leaves? i want to climb up stairs, feel like an intrusion, feel apt. i just want someone to say here is a girl, her name is ani, care for her, pretend she’s an animal, pretend she’s a tree. i want to know when i became so standoffish and i want to know when i became sane and i also want to know if that was you in the car park the other night, bleating horribly into the space like some winded elephant or a nintendo 64 or something because i really wanted to play with you but my eyes kept saying stop it, you are not a tree you are a mass delusion and we don’t want to see where you’re going to end up, we always were the prettiest part of you, we don’t deserve this squinting treatment and etc.

He had a regular-sized dick and I went to the store and I stole it. From the regular-sized dick collection behind the glass. A lot of us talk about beauty. A regular hanker for a cure, a regular size, not big or extra. I said, I’ve been waiting to do this all night and then I went and did it just like I’d seen it done. I don’t know what happened after that. Someone had thrown a breast and shattered the glass and a glass crackling caught my eyeball. But they are one of those bands that are going to sound normal live.

She sometimes likes things I don’t like. She smacks lips and mouths the word FUCK with a savory disposition. I smile. I have no quarrel with her tonight, but what’s this? A gobfull of fingers, plastic and metal, writhing between my teeth and tongue beg me taste.

I need to be restrained. Court is in order. Someone order me to stop smoking. Not you, mom, you had your chance.

Does no good to be too precious about all this, it does no good. Care is taken where care lies and where we lie, assuming that by now you know us well enough to know so.

sadly looking at your pictures
why you have no change for quarters
why we told you she’s not pretty
how the west was never won

It’s so important to be not boring. A constant rearrangement of things is what is required. Also, a somewhat steady acquisition of newer things is imperative. One must endeavor in any and all cases to cease to be faithful to the letter and conversely be fast and loose with a jackhammer on the windowsill. Only boundlessness will be rewarded.

I got up to pee. In the dark, I slipped on slippers and shuffled in the direction of the bathroom. It felt darker than usual for bedtime. I stepped out of my bedroom into what I thought was my hallway but was a dark void. I died. Then I remembered I still had to pee. I died with a full bladder. Did you know that when you die you retain your last bodily state? A sort of psychic photograph. I died while needing to pee and slightly sleepy. Nobody was waiting for me in the bathroom. I kept reaching up to rub my eyes but I had no hands. I wished to pee and go back to bed but I could no longer find the hallway. Or the toilet. Or the bed. Or the door. Or the lightswitch. Or the other door. Or the floor. Or the wall. Or my flat. Or my face.

A pretty brunette with eyes like late afternoon golden suns on a planet that has two suns set in a peachy expanse of heaven.

I came back to tell you how much I loved it but you were gone.

I spit disease.

I’m tired of propping you up like we’re in a shitty eighties movie.

I’m tired of thin-lipped brunettes waxing pretty and making me agitated.

They don’t know what they’re talking about.

I would spank myself, but I don’t like the feeling of my skin against my palm.

But I like the feeling of my palm against my skin.

And I like the feeling of almost too drunk.

But I don’t like the feeling that comes next.

Just kind of waiting, waiting. And sleep is the cut off of waiting for brief hours until you wake to wait again.

Excuse me? I beg your pardon, but what of the beauty? They say they saw it here at some stage past. Previously they’ve seen it wandering these very halls, but we’ve seen nothing of the sort. Nary a flicker idles by nor does a flash of sincerity do create that which is beauty. Nor does itself, beauty. Or even a beaut. Or a beau, I dare say we’ve not seen one of those in ages. We sit poised, our hair is well coiffed, our noses upturned yet only slightly as in an air but not overly so; our clothes are neat and clean and pressed, our nails trim. And yet here we sit and here we shall remain and none but pain does pay us mind.

How do you teach a soldier to stand down? A fighter when the coast is clear to let down his guard and conserve energies at an opportune moment, like when there are no more bumblebees in the bathroom. But what if one should appear? Should you get caught in the bathroom with your pants and your guard down both, should you worry.

Inimitable concern. Unmitigated concern. And a facility for pronouncing neither.

And a propensity for overblown savagery.

Here in this eight-by-eight room of halves and three-quarters sits a stoned and weathered you. A glossy mirrored you. A you of little faith. A misunderstanding. No one leans against a lamppost to watch. Your thread of word being too hard to follow. I mean swallow. I mean I was almost in there without the first person. I mean I was almost in there without the cruelly amateur attempt at post-modernism. Oh, look. She said post-modernism. Burn that bitch at the steak. Do I have to sic it or will you not believe that whatever I can will do say what what.