I consider Straight Edge, but
decide I don’t care.
I didn’t answer. I didn’t feel like it.
His bow was condescending: too low to be taken very seriously, and far lower than the situation demanded. I dreamt—a moment’s inattention—that his Rubbish Hat might tumble from his Rubbish Head. I wished—another moment—that it would. I wondered—a fleeting wonder—which of them was more detestable.
He straightened, hat and head united in conspiracy.
He repeated the question, slowly.
His consonants spat disgust.
Pointedly, I wiped disgust from my cheek.
I sneered at his sneer (or maybe it was just his face), and answered him as vaguely as I could.
I don’t know where the Little Banana Guy’s got to.
he mentioned something about filming cheese.
He was persistent, I was abstract.
who am I kidding? bananas don’t speak.
they go on breakfast in cereal commercials.
I had no reason to be difficult … but he had no reason to be wearing such a Rubbish Hat.
all of us, always, we’re voyeurs.
it’s coming to something
I don’t know what
a Grotesque Animal
like, nothing helped me keep up with you
so I struggled forward until I saw you
philosophising notions of desire.
and, with nothing, you courted me
and, by-and-by, you caught up with me
willingly, I dove into your fire.
but nothing like the dream of you
no love helped me agree with you
it made me sick to have your face near mine.
and nothing held me close to you
I couldn’t give my soul to you
a clumsy kind of nothing left at all
… like need, or whatever, that feeds itself
with its own meaning, or it’s own means.
like drowning in fire, or fire drowning in itself.
and, like, I’m into you in pieces and never to your face
a clumsy kind of love, or of whatever.
“I got things to write.”
a clumsy kind of whatever.
a high to ride and crash on.
you were my second-fondest memory.
stuck in that place where she’d look at her feet and pull all the shapes, because she wants everyone to be happy. but the DJ is some dick truck driver they found in the restroom. and there’s not much left. hardly much left.
she’s an isolating kind of intensity. and it’s not like she could’ve healed them all anyway. so she breaks her soul.
all anyone can do is love.
love hunt // love hard
it’s neither the depth of prose, nor the brilliance of idea.
we are misdiagnosed, misprescribed, misinterpreted. there is a gap. we fill it with dreams. we fill it with caffeine and sugar and desire. we fill it with alcohol, with emotion. we sustain ourselves with stimulants.
there is no method in this, no ritual.
there is no future in it. but, hopeless, we hope.
we sustain ourselves with stimulants. stimulants like love.
veiled in irony, and out of existence.
silent, like a thread worm.
and not knowing why your knees are blue or why the words aren’t where you remember leaving them.
but those are trivial. those are decisions. quiet those.
they say that we fear what is unknown. I fear what might become known. I fear nostalgia. I fear how far feelings might compound, but not the inevitability of them defeating me.
I want to do as much good as I can. I want to impact as little as I can.
I am sick of being a challenge: sick with it. most days, I’d cut out part of my soul … if that was possible, and if it meant I’d be a little less intense.
I want to fade like a fucking ghost into nothing, just now.
if there was a God, I might pray for it.
please, God, take this back. please, another talent. please, another mistake. please, don’t be a fucker.
‘crush’ means that I like someone.
‘crush’ does not mean that I want to sleep with them.
sure, my crushes—challenging, interesting people—are the ones that may end up of romantic interest … but that is not implied.
I get crushes on people when I think they’re probably awesome.
I get fascinated with character.
I suppose it’s kind of foolish, as getting carried away by mystery can mean you don’t notice the rubbish.
my crushes aren’t necessarily human unicorns. mostly, they’re people I don’t know very well, but would like to know better. or people who I find compelling, without there being much reason for it.
I like to think it’s flattering … but it’s hardly a declaration of love.
you can live of chocolate soy milk and falafels, right?
because that’s all I’m eating for the rest of forever.
that, and gin and strawberries and those heart lollies with the dumb phrases on them.
been lusting over Other People’s bikes all day. and planning an EPIC POST. and my tattoo. and this mad zine. and rearranging my room. and finding Gimlet’s taste in music. and—oh yeah—that uni work thing.
hiding—camping—under my desk in the chaos of my partially-rearranged room.
alone, with all these backward steps.
waiting to stage my own intervention.