I always say you don’t chose who you like. I say to myself, mostly. So the reunion, because it felt like a lot of time had passed, was a slack rubber band.
I love rubber bands, the thick red ones that encourage gusto and bravado. They hurt and the pain reminds you of how well they work.
I would like to take this opportunity to ask something of my existence:
Me: I would like to hear a snap!
Existence: A thud? Or similar to when something breaks?
Me: No! More like fingers, a good dry click. A firm sound, a strong noise.
Existence: Would you like it to hurt?
Me: Yes, it feels good when you know something works.
Thursday, January 29, 2009
Sunday, January 18, 2009
Curious-version 2
I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Q: “Are there any openings here for a voyeur?”
A: NO!
I form into oil, spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. My greasy intent falling forwards towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your existence.
I place an ear against its rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is just too much fluid around the brain.
“Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour”.
* * *
I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It wasn’t a surprise it was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon the angles I couldn’t see.
“You see”… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing.
I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage…“Here we go again”.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Q: “Are there any openings here for a voyeur?”
A: NO!
I form into oil, spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. My greasy intent falling forwards towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your existence.
I place an ear against its rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is just too much fluid around the brain.
“Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour”.
* * *
I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It wasn’t a surprise it was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon the angles I couldn’t see.
“You see”… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing.
I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage…“Here we go again”.
Sunday, January 11, 2009
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Curious
I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Are there any openings here for a voyeur? NO!
I am the oil spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. Falling forward towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your conversations. I place an ear against the rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is too much fluid around the brain. Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour.
I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon angles I couldn’t see.
You see… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing. I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage. Here we go again.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Are there any openings here for a voyeur? NO!
I am the oil spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. Falling forward towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your conversations. I place an ear against the rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is too much fluid around the brain. Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour.
I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon angles I couldn’t see.
You see… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing. I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage. Here we go again.
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