red marks on my chest in an explosion of disease. they’ve all got it around this building, some kind of ambiguous bug that puts stones in your eyes and thoughts down the drain. a scattered sense of self along the pavement and walls and through the mud of north london. limbs are rotting up and down the stairs and in your bed too. a hand across my mouth, I bite holes in the sky.
wet mud covers my skin, already breaking in jagged lines and falling off like nothing has happened.
The pale face of boredom or raised voices, scratching insides. I see no one for days, but the lamps are always lit out there, sensing ghosts in the hallway. A smell of burnt paper, but the windows are dead dark eyes from outside. They have disappeared into the walls, mumbling to themselves at night and passing cigarettes back and forth and I can almost hear my thoughts through the conversations because they are so shining bright and clear like a flashlight that blacks out shadows and greys. a big yellow moon and nothing around.
it has dried out now and formed spiky lumps in the corner of one eye. swollen vision and heavy words. I only see the end of the room, lines on my hands.
when strangers talk on the bus their lips move carelessly to crashing drums.
Lights lie scattered around and far away, like burning coal across blackstone. She grabs my hand and turn my head towards a sky rinsed in morning colours, orange pink within a lonely blue. Your eyes are wet stones that I stole from a naked beach somewhere among cliffs and shrieks and where seaweed marked my hands with strong thumbs. Dreams or daydreams and heavy drums and seaside rumours, starlights above and beneath. Our tangled hair flows across the seat in shimmering strings of gold and white.
Rastlösheten griper tag i svaga handleder och kväver ambition till grusig sömn. Vad ska jag med en kropp till. Armar och ben släpar i diket längs med krökta sidogator och jag imiterar förtryckta minspel i halvmörkret. Du ser inte när månen rullar ut sin fjälliga tunga utmed älven. Kanske är jag galningen med tunga skor och uppfläkta tankar.
Moln står som mörka städer runtomkring oss. Kan du inte försvinna i deras ihålighet.
it throws me over, a sudden fatigue, and paralyses restless ambition. throws me over and drags me out to sea where I drown in impossible dreams. the thought of hours melting away consumes me and holds me down and small stones blend with the blood on my knees. thoughts form slowly as weekends come crashing down. the mind is dead, the writing poor and the streets are vibrating, whispering, running fingers through my long brown hair. lightstreams shaking at the crossing.