days when the night fails
works in progress
get your own slinky
starting
all scars
People play at being scarred: they talk of betrayals and disappointments; wounds that are figments of the imagination at best; a lie believed, a trust broken; minor abandonments that have no consequence.
all my scars are literal: stab wounds and burns, cut fingers and a plunged indentation in the cheek, a forearm etched with an indecipherable i-ching.
I don’t need to talk, I can show.
talk of drugs (again)
again the discussion of drugs: this time i might be bipolar and when presented with the evidence, he draws back. perhaps you are just uni-polar.
how about the madness that’s about me? how about the madness i have seen? how about the suffering i have incurred and have put on those that love me? are you telling me all that isn’t enough to feel as i do, to be racked as i am?
there is progress to be made, but it will be made on my terms, as i am. there is nothing wrong with me, there are no wild pendulum swings. i am human, i am frail, but i carry within me a monster who is also my strength. i have a cold trigger, i can become detached at will. it is a survival mechanism.
let’s talk about that. let’s talk about what the fuck happened to me that i felt the need to survive.
hopped up on prozac or coke: it’s just another drug. i am full of addictions, but chemicals ain’t one of them.
the singing beggar
simple beacons
the beauty of everything lies in simplicity: even the most complex structures are made up of smaller, finer things. the way she parts her hair, the way the boy tilts his foot, the way the girl sighs. the intricacy and force of a kiss, the depth and promise of fingers entwined beneath a bed sheet. the way your daughter laughs when you tickle her, the squeal of your son as you scoop him up from the floor, the way she breathes as you undress her. the simple things, a spot of light in the dark, a beacon to return home.
sorrow and i at the end
and the year has come to an end. all this trial and tribulation, all this dis-ease, all this pain and madness, all this alienation and sorrow.
where does it comes from?
i weep thinking of you, your death, your life, the pain i’ve brought you, the harm you’ve inflicted on me, ‘you’ over and again, always different, this cavalcade of pointing, the infinite gesture, of reaching outside from within, of breaking the skin, breaking this veil, into some other place, where there is only you, only me, i and other, eternal, absolute and pure.