How I Feel

All the grotesque voyeurism I usually conjure disappears today because it is vulgar and crass, and I could not begin to apply it to such beautiful people, in their time of loss. Even myself, such a figure of fun usually; now I feel like I can't be anything but statuesque in my dignity - because I have to be. Because if the cracks appear in one of us when the light goes out then the whole world will crumble apart beneath our feet, and the horrid depths below are not a place I wish to send anyone I care for.

No doubt many people reading this have experienced loss, and will understand. I feel selfish and vainglorious for trying to elaborate how I feel, but I want to, so I will.

I have not slept for a very long time; no one has. There are so many faces flashing around the house and every eye is red and pouring tears, pulsing sadness through gargantuan veins, limitless devouring love all hanging loosely from lanterns; guiding balloons safely home.

Panting lonely sighs, staring at the wall, reading books and not taking in words, holding hands and tearing apart the tissues. Everything feels so fleeting, so tinged with sadness and overflowing with meaning. Artifacts of little value now destroy me, and I bury my head in my hands and weep. The smallest things, the most minuscule, become cosmic in their sudden lack of purpose, their owner covered in cotton and breathing so slowly, eyes closed never to open again, and my hands trembling and unable to look. The smallest things hurt so much; and I will never again hear that voice, that beautiful joyous laugh. I cannot help but think I can pick up the phone and have her answer in that beautiful calming way, and I know that any fears I have will dissipate. No problem is too big for a grandmother. Not even dying. It is just one of those things, handled with the greatest ease, and the swiftest of arms flung around my shoulder.

The greatest struggle is there in the eyes of those left behind, who don't want her to to go. I didn't want her to go. I never wanted her to go. No one deserves this. The intimacy of death is overwhelming, and the strength of love, the sheer will to provide comfort unending.

I know today a large large part of me died along with my grandmother. A part of my past is now just that; the past, forever locked in my head with only dreams to stir up the correct agitations to make it seem real.

I cannot believe she is gone.

Jaywalking

Is it ever okay to dance so beautifully with so crass a sound scratching from the stereo, so dark a light illuminating the cracks of your face?

I would feel so content to drift every last second away floating downstream and crashing under the weight of the cascade at the end. Falling water and I. Effortlessly entwined, mouth full of earth and leaves clinging to my ears, my bizarre elfin shape destroyed on rocks of pure amnesty. Shuffling onwards, mortal coil ragged and torn, slipping off me, or cut off with scissors. Yoko laughing. I try so hard to dignify my actions, but fail so remorselessly in hurting myself so much that the blood trickles down my chin, with the spittle, the alcohol touching puddles on the floor where he stood and makes for sombre chains of sweat on the brow.

I cannot find hope within that rotting old frame, through contact with toilets or bathrobes; but dancing effortlessly on satin sheets stained with apathy and sweat; lurching forward from desperate clinging partisanship; the labels stick so vehemently, and never even think to leave the door open, for a way out.

Urging myself to spill out all over and not cry poor tears from even the lewdest of orifices onto the faces and licking up the tears as I hear the family in the background wonder what their daddy is up to and if that boy is happy in his complicity.

I remember when I drew pictures in crayon of my mother and my grandmother, and how I was such a lovely lovely lad. I was such a precious vessel. I could have filled it with all the seven wonders, but instead I chose to fill the empty cup with shit; overflowing, a whole river bursting the banks and wrestling with the alcohol in the bloodstream, the numerous probable infections. I was so sick of myself and I learned the hard way that liking yourself is such a petty crime.

Death

I want to move to the country, deep in the mountains and live in a cottage there, and not worry about people anymore. I want to find the one I will give myself to completely, and lie in their arms and softly sleep and dream of sheep.

Under the mountain, capped with snow, I would walk with such gigantic steps; listening intently to the wind as its song wanders down from the valley.

I wish it was nineteen seventy-two again. I want to wear my hair long and not be so fat, I want to wear scarfs and walk my dogs and press flowers. I yearn to be alone. Kissing the sunset goodnight, I would read, and listen to music, and not have a telephone. I want to write my poems and not worry about anyone reading them.

I wish Samuel Beckett were still alive. I want to hold his hand and have him tell me it will all be alright. I would only ever listen to that sentence if he told it to me. Which he does. I masturbate and wait for Godot, Molloy, Malone, and the rest. One day I will go to Paris and lie down on his grave, and stroke the stone with my grotesque fingers and press my lips against the cold. I cannot thank him enough.

I want to save everyone from the eternal chilly black; I want everyone here with me, on some beautiful enchanted isle. I miss that beautiful girl, whom I loved. I really did give her everything, and now I just do not know where to put my penis, or my heart. All the holes seem the same these days, but I still open my chest and invite them inside. I want everyone with me, and I want to protect them all from the pain. All pain. I want it to be gone. Why can't we all stay here in eternal embrace? You cannot hug the bones. You can't cuddle a corpse. I don't want my mummy to have to go into that horrid earth and lie alone forever. She doesn't deserve that. No one deserves that - not after all we've been through. The birth was hard enough, and then the society - that brute. I don't want my bunny to go into that awful hole and not climb out. I want to stop it all, and not ever have to say that cruel, horrible farewell. I will have to write some words someday, that cannot bring back my departed friends, but will bring smiles and tears in equal measure.

Things have changed so much in this house. It feels much darker, more slow, and altogether more ethereal. I can just drift through the walls and trip over memories, cascading down the stairs and crashing over the carpet, onto my shoes. I can't help but feel the water around my ankles. I'm drowning in the past, gasping for air and grabbing for a raft.

Beginnings

"It was about four in the morning in the height of summer, and the birds were singing beautifully. I had been staring into the mirror for at least twenty minutes. The sunlight bled into the room behind me and the bathroom light cast its judgement. I think my staring might be the result of severe narcissism. I see myself and I think I’d probably fuck me. Probably. It’s only when you look closer that you see the ugly humanity of it all. You see things in yourself and you realise you’ve criticised other people for less, but somehow it’s okay because it’s you. My face was gruesome. So purple and tan and tired. I looked at that beard which had appeared from nowhere. I guess I just stopped shaving somewhere down the line. I looked at all the individual hairs, peeling away from the flesh, trying to escape; they weren’t even the same colour. That’s me all over, no consistency. Lower than that my neck, and all those bruises from the love I made several hours ago. I can’t stand to make love prettily, and I never have. Sex is ugly, and unclean, and not remotely pretty. I suppose that’s why I like it so much. My eyes looked so bored– a dark brown, but not all that intense. They always seemed so much richer when I was younger, and in my mind’s eye they are a deep chocolate. The reality is harsh, and different – they’re more like sandalwood. Even my eyes were pale. The hair, the roof of the soul, was what made me what I am. It was never perfect, and it was never what I wanted. That quiff, borrowed from a thousand movies and pop singers, flopped limply about in front of my forehead. I saw myself so clearly that morning – I saw the face of a man who didn’t know where he was, and didn’t care. I stared for so long that my face lost all meaning. It became a pale collection of forms, and grotesque features, geographical, but still organic. "

Americana

Driving through town provides the golden thrills of youth, for free, and without fear of growing too old, slowly, losing our hair, and dying irresponsibly, just for fun.

The honey coloured sky, branches silhouetted against burning summer, and rustling as we drive past, in our convertible, layers of air pouring through our mouths, and up in our eyes, holding the face steady, and kissing, pushing the hair back all through the past. You're curled on the back seat, the bottle of Jack rolling around amidst the maps and the water bottles, your famous blue raincoat, discarded, and tied to the aerial, flapping in the breeze down the long road away from here.

That old cassette mix we made has run out and the skips are beautiful, just like that soft lulling sigh coming from the engine as we head west and don't ever want to stop until we reach those soft majestic hills, in that golden valley where I spent my childhood. I'm going to take you up mountains and remove your jeans, pulling softly as you let your long hair roll across my cheeks and feel the gentle training of your sex register deeply with my most base feelings of compassion, and ridiculous denials.

When Born To Run came bursting from the stereo and licked the air with sexual guitar chords, you woke up and clasped your arms around my neck, my Ray Bans creaking slightly as your press your face against mine, and you smell of Ralph Lauren, and I smell of the city, and your soft petals drift under my shirt, the air expanding with your fingers and making me feel whole.

It won't take long before we run out of gas, and need to pick up some more cigarettes.

Windows 2

I can not look out into the black night sky and not be intrigued by the windows. I grossly misrepresent one here.

A note on the text

When I started this blog in February 2009 - I set out a manifesto of what this blog would be about.

This whole phenomenon has brought about an insidious revolution whereby know-nothing individuals can protrude a half-baked philosophy on pretty much anything they can get their sweaty hands upon into the arena of the popular conscience. I have been bombarded by erroneous, inflated, and downright boring text in my attempts to enjoy the fruits of this invention; and while it is true that there are fruits - sweet and wholesome, filled with literary juices - they are few and far between and it makes the struggle all the more frustrating.

In this, I have failed miserably. I have become what I entered this world to combat. As of late, what I have crafted here is an amateurish banquet of inanity, trivial poetry, and vulgar self-deprecation.

So I propose a new manifesto, a renewed promise. Over the next few days I am going to collect my thoughts and create a course for this to take. I wish to continue writing - but not with such disgusting lack of direction. I want to create something exciting, interesting, not just a slow collection of phrases.

There are at least three people who read this blog - which is more than enough for me to consider the possibilities of becoming famous - and with that in mind, I will need to distil what is it I think I can do with this thing, into a more alchemically potent experiment.