Wednesday, 30 June 2010

went to the beach. lost my limbs whilst sleeping.

silence as we watch the tyres treading paths into the flattened out harness of freedom. ancient freedom, modern slavery. each object in each row a replica of the last. bricked exterior with phoney tudor fronts. thickened glass stands firm, keeping bills down and humidity inside. keeping secrets inside. keeping seedy scenarios away from the face of the identical neighbours in their identical cars and houses. men in glass houses. everybody knows truth but it's scary so it's allowed to dilute into the distant subconscious. we'll dig it up when we die. it's carved into their torso's, chiselled into their features like the dreamy cheekbones of an anorexic russian whore. the baby girl is orphaned. "as long as the hand that rocks the cradle is mine."

Tuesday, 29 June 2010

just found this again tonight

haven't used it in around a year

i think in that time i forgot things

i'll try and remember not to forget anymore

i guess this is my music
I can imagine her laid out in a car park, hair untied and a whiskey scented ribbon clutched in her hand. I can imagine that as it changes from day to night, from sun to moon, she won’t even flinch. I can imagine a short spell of sprinkled rain and again, no flinch. I can imagine her lighting cigarettes off other cigarettes and thinking how each cigarette is a grain of sand, falling through the cylinder of her existence. I can see her smiling at this thought.

I can imagine her at night on the cement steps of six storey car parks, listening to etiquette through a stolen mobile phone. I imagine her knowing the lines to every obscure verse. I imagine her singing each word in her mouth. Loud enough for only her to hear.

“Some things are best left unsaid”

I imagine her at a party, locked inside a friends room. She’d be alone. She’d be stoned. There’d be only the laptop light, a cool blue glow. She’d be holding a pen and it would be writing.

I imagine her muting sound each time she heard a footstep.

I imagine her to wear a t-shirt in winter. She’d like to feel the snowflakes pinch her skin.

I imagine her writing letters to dead men. Dead men she never knew.

I imagine her in a park. She feeds the ducks. She speaks to tramps. These are the only people who can hear her with no consequence.

She’ll pay them to listen.

They’d listen for free.