Sometimes when the light seeps in and overlap the shadows in every nook and cranny, forming amethyst cascades shooting sprouts up the walls, I close my eyes and let life wind in fast forward. Vibrant purple spots leaks from under my eyelids and embroids faces, so real, but not from any memory. I know I will distinguish them in a vast crowd someday but it does not matter now. Everything is in its right place and I feel the time is square; I am hurled between the corners and sometimes I return far too soon.
When all words have run out, and the only thing that comes out is a dry drooling; I smile inwards and laugh at the other simple-minded people while letting the sun melt my sandpaper-like skin.
I must return where I never came from, ache the shame out of my bones.
When do you know you’re actually insane? Is it when you’re aware of it, or when you’re not?
I open the same doors every day, my ankles are sore, my knees are sinking to a concrete ground, or is it sand. My everlasting wish that no one shall enter. And so I bend up my jaw, form a dubious grin.
the ginger ale-drunkard
is throwing pebbles against rocks
outside the extinct pub
with averted windows
nobody knows of his wishes
Think of death
says the cemetery gate
I imagine myself thinking
then paint my lips bright red and pierce
rotting bladder wrack in my pocket
with sharpened finger nails
and so I enter the world
today I will concern everybody
nobody concerns me
Old Eagle, London 2011
How I always bought 4 pound flower bouquets at Sainsbury’s, most often carnations, and how he used to complain: You’ve almost hit nil at your account this month, why on earth do you persist in buying flowers twice a week? But I always felt better afterwards, and our tiny and somewhat shabby Camden flat felt more like a home. I remember those endless days I had off, waking up early afternoon, preparing a full breakfast orgy followed by chain smoking in the window waiting for someone to call and suggest we share a bottle of wine somewhere down Kentish town road. I was always longing for something else but I also knew that it would never be any better than this. So I kept stealing time and created memory images of nostalgia experienced in advance, just to stock up and send off to an apathetic future me.
We stack, touching each other jerkily while gazing up into the uneventful ceiling with such a passion, as our sticky bodies are bound and compelled. I bend in an unnatural angle, leaning into you, tormenting myself into corrosive genetic material. I stayed there, but have never been further away: it was like constantly running two steps behind.
You learned a long time ago, but it’s only now you force yourself to stay. Internal exile or external asylum, does it matter? So you saw the sky into three pieces, to carefully put them in a pointless straight line. Bloodstream matrix muscle mass raises and lowers itself to finally settle down.