Janus

Draw a line down the middle of my face and then I can tell you where ending is the beginning and the beginning is a start and then I can have a start.

I skip childishly between a thug and being a butterfly. But the butterfly can cut you too if you get too near. I’m the cat that sits on your lap, I’m the cat that turns and bites your head off. Don’t think I can’t scratch you and love you at the same time.

Drawing a life out of inks of black has an ecstasy that only we can see; In my dreams and in my bed where life does not exist. Things existing somehow were not good enough. I watch myself from the outside. I’ve put away my life neatly into compartmental draws stuffed safely away where no one can see them. I made a coat out of my own skin this morning, someone else can wear it now.

Epiphany

And she came out of nowhere and kissed me in the darkness. It was strange how nowhere always felt like somewhere. The ties of meaning wrapped up neatly in one second seconded themselves into one sweet little bow.

Those ties came undone and spread themselves like an imagined angel of darkness spreading itself out to go to sleep as though in its rest it was the most alive. Pain was normal, it spread itself out and went to sleep taking your dreams and your nightmares with you.

She’s still there in the darkness, my lips see lips but i can’t see and the sea of darkness surrounds us like we were two twins sharing the same amniotic space.

There was something that went click and all of who I was fell out of my homeland. Time is on no ones side and if God that isn't there was a she it wouldn’t be on hers are either. Firing bullets out of my own mind that were imaginary. I’d want to be wrong so people could shoot me down out of the sky. Taking your marching orders from time the clocks have eviscerated millions. Governments are factories and factories are governments and they have a different design now but imagination can’t dream up a delusion good enough to unmake them and we have now only the making to spin something, perhaps better if only infinitesimally small and only to be blown away by the confiding hands of the clock that we are all running away from. Always remember to ask the victim what it’s like to be beaten and what it’s like for the vigilante to get away with a kiss when no one was looking. The best I can do is to remember my Amnesia.

She made honey where my lips were, the acres of space in my head shot apart by an electric spark. The darkness past a gaping doors; is this a dream, a fantasy, a memory. All we ever had was the gaping door and the acres in our heads and what is in our hands now, an electric honey that makes me cry and bite. The cut and the bliss drove by me and through me like a bus sauntering off to crash somewhere else but even if it was only ever crash that was delayed in our own predictions where else are we to go? Love and Liberty can never be evicted from each other’s bed or minimised or made remote from responsibility or kissed out of sight. In the end we all do it to ourselves and maybe we never deserved it anyway and we have yet to come to terms with life not coming out of the darkness to find us, we have to go into the darkness and find it, where ever it is.

The tongue sat in the fishbowl of the mouth and what the hell is this, a kiss? Someone your senior kisses you, this is no more than a handshake but somehow so much more. The hands on my face or on me anywhere in time are bigger than any fuck and twice the mark.

Stately the stars sit there doing nothing as though they were waiting to be pinched out, they’ve done enough already. Stars and angels mean nothing to being kissed in the dark. Doors opening up and the darkness comes at you quicker than the light. When did darkness get to be something bad by the way? Several million years of passion spill out in the mouth. It is not my desire, it is your desire filling me and making my desire. My darkness has a full stomach now, its safe now to look.

27...

Does 27 years all come in one second, all the blankness confiding itself into one moment. 27 years and counting. All broken brain a set of scattered parts glued together. I take off my skin and there’s no blood beneath. They take a sideways glance and their eyes go right by me. 27 years and counting and I’ve been evicted from my own body. My one second is seeing the sprawl of the day and the years before them which go all the way to that day to tell me I’m 27 years old and counting. The seconds have crawled in through my stomach and up my spine eating out what made me human and spat themselves out through my mouth. 27 and no longer human, I’m a spider watching the world, give me the word and I’ll jump on you. Does 27 mean anything or is it just the number before 28 and the one after 26. The sideways glance backed out on me over a childhood, over adolescence, over adulthood.

A human tide comes annually over me like a brutal love, maybe I’d rather have a slap, a kiss or a caress run away with me. This adulthood is a game I have sleepwalked through, come and meet me where the rain isn’t raining I can hear my stomach screaming, I cut out my stomach but a anew one grew in its place and said the same things. It was singing all of today and yesterday. Like a scarecrow moving in the wind 27 and fucking lonely. The powerless need a place to go, Where the signposts go to hell. It must be better than this, the demons moved out ages ago, even they couldn’t bear it anymore, lips like honey keep trickling into my memories but so does the blood and the mouths that spit seconds of glass, life here is a full of a stomach of hate. The hate cut out a smile where my heart was and now I’m grinning.

The Climbing Frame.

We condescend and are arrogant to the people we love too easily and obedient and dutiful to the people we hate who deserve so little less. Hatred and hierarchy have twisted your sadness and hatred into the shadow of something you call love and made your love hide in a darkened closet and scream out in your dreams where no one can see them. This is all well beyond having tattooed with a knife across your spine all the things you assume you care for or think are buried beneath the skin of your underside where no one can read them. Up here we mount the climbing frame of time and with things that last that little bit too long at least we have a better understanding of them. Sunshine in out own time makes years of rain welcome and even seems to make sense.

We make our way up monkey ropes, which should be ours, and equality of opportunity is to be on the higher end of the pole as you are sliding down. Blink once and we are gone, time carves out a think slice and meats it self out neatly but briefly. Tie up your horizons into a polite bow. Put away all your dreams neatly into draws and nice little compartments that everyone will approve of. Do up the buttons of your own applause and make them around you happy by doing what they expect of you. The sand we played in was the place where we shaped out our dreams but they never told us and made us think the opposite that the world outside was a place of continents where we could shape our lives like that sand in that sand pit of our childhood’s.

The Ornamental Tree

Love wrapped up with sex and sex wrapped up with love. I cannot see the ending and the beginning and the rolling colours of you upon my mind and you in my life are desire criss-crossing across the sky. So far away and a strangers shadow that I follow I feel as though I’ve known you all my life. Stitching in and out the threads of time and you still remain at a distance but fill the vestibule of my heart. In days gone by being a fragrant plant in my hunger was enough but that didn’t make you enough and made the beautiful skins of which you really were peeled away like an anguished onion. Once upon a time whatever or could have made you cry might have been statistically pretty or images upon the pillow and waves of my mind. All that was feminine curled up like a cat in my mind and was a self-saving drug of the mind. To cut out ones sexuality is to cut out the stem of humanity and do so impossible. But there are times and places that are beyond mere rapacious thirst.


Languages and cleverness and warmth Wisdom and innocence and all my badness and goodness and everything else curl around each other. If love means anything its this place where arrogance and grandiosity fall away. Where does this go on the love calculator? Am I spider crawling towards a fly? Are you more than skin and bones if your intelligence feels sexy? Droplets of your emotions drip out annually onto my hands. I go for them like a starving cat foraging for crumbs. Where is the alarm bell for delusion? Where can I know where I know I ma not just another asshole. I’ve only got artefacts of you and your name comes at the end of the alphabet.


Blow a kiss in my ear and whisper the meaning of what it is at the same time. I came home and climbed up the tree of who you really were and fell asleep in your sweet understanding. With you and with this I can know intelligence is not a place of ruthlessness and not a place of counting the ways of how people can curl their cynicism around each other. On a moment like one of these drinking up darkness which has become second nature and I have become a sadist to myself rather than a masochist your communication brought back something I had forgotten. Memories of places and feelings like spring gardens felt like they were dying stars.

An Angel with problems who gardens and no doubt brushes her teeth. Playing games of guessing how many foibles you might have doesn’t distract from this bizarre trick of the mind. This is hopscotch in the night and it’s a relief to know your human. But everything I could do would be a mistake. The person you love is an animal and the desire saves no one from the fallout from hitting against your domestic reality.

Your angel is not real.

The Ice Road

As little as you are and as little as I am and as a speck that’s unseen in the universe and with no safeguarded promise of living forever we act as though we were living forever in this accidental minute that comes from the deliberate bedtime ravings of centuries. They don’t tell you about that genealogical lineage at school now do they? A pathway from darkness to darkness but if a light of our own devising and the accumulative but constant of the candles of the universe. The sequins of a temporary explosive time that lasts longer and all of us combined but seems firmly tatooed against the sky like a permanent painting.

We crawl and push and jump and scream our way through our own universe. We know there’s a meaning to the universe but we also know it won’t do us any favours or answer our prayers.
Who pays again for that ancient accident in the Garden of Eden when you have Eden down the road or outside your window or in your home?

When we children did we not run around in cement tunnels like there was no tomorrow and lick lollypops as though there was nothing to please others with. With your gods eye we are a baby trapped within a baby trapped within a baby. How can you save for a rainy day that you do not know will come when whether it is with or without a celestial hand the rain is the paint of the world. What are we stick men and stick Women and creatures of clay for some other things desire or free people with our loves, our ethics, our lives and our lollypops which are ours.


The ice road was a prehistoric bridge over a place of danger and uncertainty in an Antarctic wonderland that scared you. This is the glacial highway you walked miles of pain and grief across. The ghosts of your life doing a Mexican wave of consolation were ever beneath your melting road. Who’s going to ferry you across this flood of tears now, without your road into the heart of your God?


Draw a dream together with the sowing machine of your imagination and then be happy to be bones and ash and stockpile your memories before you disappear forever. Do you remember the moment when you awoke from sleep and couldn’t remember a moment ago in the world where your eyes were shut? That’s what it would be like. Did your imagination go weeping on the real roadways that weren’t built out of ice and didn’t carry with them thousand year-old tales to warm the dying in winter? Would you rather be alive before you die or wait to be alive after you die? Or moving chess pieces over the frozen wilderness of your mind in anticipation of making a mistake or doing something right. Or make a frozen road melt and make it not a crossing to somewhere you cannot predict but merely a pool that you are swimming in and let those ghosts die.

Broken Flesh

Broken flesh and sweet kisses and of the scattered memories that stick in you and the memories that burst in your mind. There’s a picnic in my mind and I’m trying to get at it. The long lost thing that you always wanted at the edge of the forest of my drives. I’m waiting inside and can perceive some place not too far away where I no longer wait and I can carve out a life with a pencil or a pen or take a photograph of an emotion. Is crawling in human emotion somewhere between the animal and the android, both a prism and a magnifying glass.