down in me

Do you know what it’s like? It’s like playing Eskimo Bears with a person who doesn’t like hatchets. You know? Infuriating. You’re trying to offer them your backside and they’re pretending your face is minuscule.

I felt like playing with words this morning so I picked up Toxicity and Desiccant and Honey and we rode out into the open sore of my enemy’s boil-ridden pussy that bitch. I said, Toxicity you go first. We vacillated for a while unable to decide whether I should hang the hammer or the hook or dart upon the shore or what, you know? In the end we drove out to the lake and had a picnic. It was fun. You should totally come next time.

From within
From without
Many instances
Will be in doubt

From within, from without, many instances will be in doubt.

from within from without many instances will be in doubt

from within from without
many instances will be in doubt

I put it on a book. And then I sit there and I wait for it to beep. I write stuff, like this. I write this and then I shut it and I wait for it to beep. I write in long lines. No word wrap for me. I close it and I put it by my ear and I wait for it to beep and for the beep to seep into my brain through my ear canal. I write some shit, like this. I write this and I sit there and I wait and sometimes I wonder. If I walk away, will I go to hell? I put it on a book. I sit there and I write it and I put it on a book and I wait. For someone who loves typing I sure can’t think of more than worthlessness to say sometimes. I sit there and I write anyway, like this. And then the five-word thought comes back. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with me. There’s something wrong with me. I put it on a book and then I sit there and I think there’s something wrong with me. I think there’s something wrong with me. There is something wrong. I sit there and I put it on a book and I think there’s something wrong with me.

I had something to say, there was something I needed to say. What was it? There’s something wrong with me, I know. I know there’s something wrong with me. Not just anything, I know. I know there’s something really wrong with me I had something to say. What was it? There was something I really wanted to say, something I’ve been trying to say for a long time I’ve been wanting to say something. Something something is wrong with me. Can’t quite put your finger on the trigger and pull. Can’t quite put your finger on what’s wrong with me and pull my hair can’t. Can’t quite say what I wanted to say. What was it?

I’m rarely happier than when I’m ignored rarely pleased with being attended to so carefully since I’m not so carefully attained I’m a driver a driver in a car that likes to think it’s seen better times when all it saw were different owners. The water doesn’t flow freely from your lips like it once did everything’s dry desolate cracking fuck it but girls are astute. They categorise lifeless organisms and breathe life into strangers with a shake of their heads I’m sullen morose and unidentified I’m crashing hard and it’s hard not to talk about my fantasies for once it’s hard not be sexual when I know you’re watching but fucked if I’m not everything you think I am except that I’m not that which I’m not. And fuck whoever thinks this is anything other than bullshit this goes back way back to the beginning to the original purpose the reason why we’re all here me my fucking reason. It’s more targeted now more aloof less ornate maybe who knows but it’s still shit.

Ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly ugly.

You like the idea of a girl tossing and turning in bed, sweaty tearing off the sheets in frustration. You like imagining the floral scent fuming off her skin pushing damp in the shadow dark; blushes spread and flush. You like the idea of girlish fear invading your nostrils as your fingers invade the honeyed musk in the folds of her pink matter. Because of course, in the end you only want to save her, protect her, fit her lovingly into a little glass vial to store on bunched up white tissue paper in a periodically accessible corner of your mind. She’s beautiful in there, she’s rich with sex and vitality, she’s wild with your nose in her hair. Time passes. She watches daytime television and eats when she’s not hungry for food, she decays, she grows old, she develops a pack a day habit and bad skin, she nurtures bad posture and a healthy dose of guilt; bored, she’s sour. She flags, she sags, she flabs, she’s spent. Douse liberally in petroleum jelly and wait to decompose.

And meanwhile, what about you?

This will come as no surprise to you: I really have no idea what the fuck I am doing. I am the only person in the world and at the same time, I don’t exist at all. I am surrounded by lots of no one. I am alone. I am not together. I am all that matters. I am worthless. I am saintly. I am clueless. I am acid. I am apples. I am rain. I am trees. I am nothing. I can not stop writing sentences that begin with ‘I am’. I am I am I am I am I am I am I am I am. Someone take the wheel, please. I am in no condition to drive.

Dear Daddy,

While I truly appreciate your support - financial and, um… financial - I regret to inform you that as of today I am no longer your keep. Yes, I have enjoyed the security of your virile embrace, but as you snap like a twig to the whims of dear old, Guantanamo womb - I mean, mummy - I feel your autumn song is my cue to exit stage left. My only regret is that I became a creature enthralled by the comforts you provided, instead of licking my chops and slinking out the back, immediately following the crème brûlée.

Bisous,
 Ani

I’m cobbled together haphazardly, bits and pieces of everything I’ve ever seen. Though if you disassemble me and inspect the parts, you won’t find me there. No essence, no depth, no soft or hard core, no creamy center. I’m a container and mostly self-contained, just don’t pop the lid. I’m a completed jigsaw puzzle, pictures of a destination wedding, a journal of selected memories carefully recorded in my sleep.

Often times (some times, most times) I think in curses:

It’s become cool to reference contemporary figures. I pledge not to reference anyone doing anything or being anything after the 90s as a knee-jerk reaction to your reactionary tactics. You’re young and I’m not and so I must pretend that it is better this way, that things are exactly the way they were meant to be, and that I have something you don’t, I have the wisdom that comes from experience. And I don’t fucking care if I sound like your grandmother, your grandmother is right, as was mine, as is mine, as will be mine. I can say that now, because said wisdom of experience gives you the knowledge to know. The force of reality thrusting its dick into my spine, won’t stop me writing what I have to say, specially in the comfort and perceived safety of my middlebrow dwelling in my western-civilised, policed, high-walled, barbed wire cell. Whether or not it’s true. Whether or not you believe me. This world is fucked. You are fucking it. I fucked it and now you’re gorging on my sloppy seconds. I was here first. I spat in your bassinet before you were born. I peed on your mother’s placenta. I ate her skin. I was here, she was here, you weren’t there so how do you know what we did and ate and shit. Fuck your Britney Spears, feed your Amy Winehouse a fucking sandwich and Kate Moss’s clothes line at H&M sucks. Fuck you all. I’m going back to the eighties. No the sixties. No the shitties, it’s all shit. You were fucked by the one who fucked me, and the one who fucked him, and the one who fucked him, and the one who fucked him and the one who fucked him. And still you feel no empathy. That’s fucked. I’m pissed. Self-righteous, elitist, entitled American-style pissed the fuck off. I’ll bend over and take it tomorrow. Right now I’m going to scream like a girl for a while. Fuck you.

Other times, I’m serenity incarnate:

I see a boy who is scared of growing old. I see my younger brother, if my younger brother could write. It’s not just because his references are also my own, by proxy through my younger siblings. So eager to shock, so willing to compromise everything; aspects of my own youth. But rather than tell him how wrong he is, how short-sighted, how inexperienced and unwise, I buddha-smile. Because he’s already half-dead. So it already half-matters.

Always I’m inclined to think the worst, because I tripped and fell on deaf ears.
Sometimes I think about you.
Sometimes I think about me.
Sometimes I drink about us. To escape.
But make no mistake… it is always unequivocally and without reservation: All. About. Me.
Just like that’s all about you.
We all have ourselves to contend with.

Bottom’s up.

I got melted chocolate all over the cover of my copy of Factotum. Not the vodka tonics, not the fucking Berbera, but chocolate. Somehow, I don’t think he’d approve. I’m a failure as a writer. I do what I’m told, like I go to the races to try to bet on this horse, but he takes off before I’ve committed to him. He gives me that deep sideways stare that says whatever horses say. Frankly, I would prefer a straight up hind kick to the chest to make it stop pounding when the many drinks pass through me. Still too sober. Always too sober. But I didn’t pay for a single one, not with cash. I gotta dump this load of Superfluous I’ve been lugging ‘round my neck, but I’m not quite sure where. I’m environmentally conscious, I say. You don’t care for your body or your home, he says, before putting my copy of Factotum to his nose. It fucking stinks, he whinges. I love that I can still turn anything to shit just by believing. This paragraph has been brought to you by the colour burgundy, the number three-hundred and twelve and the stench of self-loathing.

They didn’t tell me what life would be like. Their breasts spoke to me in riddles. I would stare and note their attributes: C cups with large, dark brown areolas; pendulous, creamy, pliable. Drooping fried eggs, goose skin nature and distinct self-scent. I thought these breasts were universal. The way they’re all supposed to be. I felt ashamed that mine were small, taut and pink that day. I should have retained that sense of shame.

Misty sun floating in through the spaces in the blinds, casting bright stripes on the door frame and wall and the stack of books with no bookshelf. I think you think that I don’t know what’s really going on here. I think you think that I think more of myself than I really do. I think you think that I am smarter than I really am. That I’m well-read, bred, noble. I think you think that I can do what I can’t. I think you think about me. I think I think. I think. I. Think. Too much.

Today I feel fucked. Like after sex when you’re too drunk to say no, but probably wouldn’t have said no anyway just to have a cock to crash on, a hand to hold, it’s all the same. Come on. Like you’ve never. Hurt, muscles sore, orifices splayed, but instead of the complete relaxation of release, you’re frustrated, closed up, shot dead.

Sacrifice clarity for poetry. Sacrifice poetry for sanity. Sacrifice sanity for love. Sacrifice love for a loss of loneliness.

So apparently my mind can still be attractive, even if the rest of me isn’t. There’s a thin line between passionate and psycho, which some straddle well and others piss on. Smell the hot urine running down your thighs.

The sun shines a bright, steaming light on my insecurities, highlighting my shortcomings for you all. Get me the fucking picnic basket. I was born in that ultraviolet stream and I tan like you’ve never known.