beth motherfucking kirby.

liquorice rizla.

2011-09-27T14:57:00.002+01:00

so.
it's happened again. no, scratch that - i've noticed it's been happening all along. nothing is right, nothing is wrong, everything is wrong.

my house, my house mates. my boyfriend. my job. my uni. my car. my skin. my money. myself.
everything is ok. everything is not okay.

waves of love. waves of hate. the resolute and absolute inability to do anything. laying on a mattress for hours. loving it. hating myself for it.
waves of anger and hysteria. LETS PLAY KARAOKE. lets die tonight.

i have suffered a great loss. i have lost my soul. it has been gone for, oh, years.
maybe if i look in the mirror, my reflection will not be staring glumly back at me. there will be a hole, a gap, like there is in the core of me.

who am i?

please come back to me. i need you. i am a shell without my soul.
i have grown accustomed to the space in my life but i need it filled.
i cant go on, as empty as i am.
fill me.
fill me up.

the job part 2.

2011-01-19T12:50:00.005Z

the sky begins to turn. peels off in layers of blue, green, bright glowing effervescent violet, orange-pink, the colour of blood in water.
the dust smells like the earth smells like my skin smells like the paper of things that used to exist.
everything is alight with the flames of evening. it is quiet to begin with. then i begin to hear something tapping, something crackling. the things that live, i think. the sound gets louder and i stand, my body now powdered and greyed, i stand and tilt my head to the tree tops. the leaves shine, laquered black by night.
it is so long since i have heard a whole sound. not a portion of animal language or tree's breath, but a whole story of sound, getting louder and louder and moving towards me.
i run towards the sunset, through the trees and i see. filled with the warm liquid light of sunset i see, above the trees, the swollen beauty of purple clouds. my clouds.the air is filled first with the smell of copper, blood then the smell of the trees and the earth. the clouds come toward me. the crackle now is a rush, a million tiny sounds falling together to one solid swell.
it rains over my tower, my trees, all the things that live. the air is warm and tastes. the rain comes, and washes me. where it falls, trails of wet run clean through the dust which coats me. run down the crease of my spine, on my face and between my fingers. the pregnant cloud which was purple on the trees, my cloud, is now above me, black and soft and wet. the sun still shines, the glowing alive light of a new sun.
the rain stops.
from here, away from my tower, i can see. for such a long time, i havent been able to see the whole of anything. a brick, a stone, a trunk, but not the whole of anything, the tale of left to right,
but now, i see. i can see to the falling sun, and the land between. everything is gone. i can see, i see trees and green and water for everything that was here before. a million circles of green leaves for every pebble of grey stone or glass that was here before, coloured fire by the light.
i see no past or future. i don't remember what these words mean.
i see me. i flow from the ground, i grow in the light, i rise in the morning. i feed from the dirt.
i fall to the ground with wetness. me. the sun drops behind an orange rock. my orange rock. and the battered sky gets darker.
it is night.
i am night.
this is me.

the job.

2010-05-06T00:16:00.002+01:00

i am building.
i'm building a tower, a castle, a city of me.
i make the bricks from mud and bake them in the sun. the heat touches them and fills them until the terracotta; it smells. earthy and ironish and menstrual. i make the mortar from dirt and water. the grainy paste sticks to me like dustly flour.
i make the trees, the grass, the sun and the sky. i make rivers and floors and holes for windows. i make pebbles.
i build a world with no edges.

i build huge towers which look out over icy clouds, the pale yellow-blue of the air talks of a blistering day. the towers, from them you can see blurred misty ideas of the distance. the future. nothing is old. nothing is bad or wrong or black or dead or shrivelled or sick. the things that are broken were always that way. life hums from every corner of shadow and every speckle of light.
this is nature, it is the world. everything smells alive - the must of the forest floor, covered in crumbs of tree and fern. the tang of the bitter leaves and their sticky buds; the cold stones.
mushrooms grow.

i build more and more everyday and i never stop. the bricks go higher than i can reach. they are like red pats of butter.
i never stop i never step back to admire my work because it is not done yet. it is not finished.
it is not architecture. not a vision or a concept. it is nature. it is growing through me. the soil tastes real under my fingernails. in the cracks of my knuckle.
i don't know when the trees will stop growing, prodding the sky with young fingers. i do not know when the flowers will come, or when the birds will call. i do not know how deep the ground is. how many deer there are.
i feel the sugary stone under my hands, against my calves, my knees, my nose. i taste it, it's flavour is the metal of me. the walls stretch away further than my eyes can see. out of focus, beautiful in the sunshine.

this is what i am building. everything i do is part of it. the bad and the good, they do not matter. they go into my bricks. the go into the stones i pluck from the earth. they grow into the leaves and the twigs, the branches and the sky. they are one. and then they are the same.

this is what i am building.
this is what i am; this is where i live.
this is me.

mirroring

2010-05-05T23:53:00.001+01:00

i'm obsessed with megan fox.

(post-op, obv.)

encyclopedia cathartica.

2009-12-01T01:06:00.002Z

so. what am i supposed to do now?
what do i want? shit, what do i even like? i dont know. i feel like ive liked the same stuff for so long that it feels old and it feels like i should change. did i know myself before? do i not know myself now? maybe i do still know myself, but i keep thinking i'm wrong? shit.

maybe im stressed. by whole body itches with a current like i can't be in my own skin. i scratch myself but i weal at my own nails. i cry but i turn red at the touch of my tears, salty acid on the delicate skin on my browns and cheeks. allergic to my own hair. for fuck's sake.

what is my talent?
what is my ambition?
what is my greatest need?

i don't even know. maybe im onl stressed because of this huge burden i put upon myself, the burden of all knowledge the burden of self-saviour and self direction. the burden of forcing myself to know. the burden of movement.
always tired.
always awake.
always talking and kissing and watching and walking and polishing and doing make up and dressing and eating and reading and cleaning and never stopping so i don't think about what the fuck im going to do now. next. never stop so the big not knowing comes crashing down over me like a giant blackness in the sky over my car on the motorway, like a huge wave of silvery greeny brown, torn and ripped and textured with weight and vastness and the diabolical chaos of nature, studded with shining fish and splinters of boats where minds before mine have sailed and sank into the dark, cold, wet depths of monotony.

everything around me sometimes feels so dull. not bleak but just nothing just flat and shit like a wad of sugar paper. some little lives just stuck in a cardboard tube of going-nowhere. my boyfried, my dad my firned everyone i work with no one around me knows what they want. they just are doing things because theyre easy. know what they like, dont know what theyd like to be. fleeting moments of clarity, of outlandish dreams. dreams for children who dress in their mothers shoes and their fathers jumpers, playing at being unstoppable before those big fat waves and clouds and all the other piece of shit analogies ad metaphors and similies you can think of. shit you were taught in school. pathetic fallacy.

i just. usually i find myself an answer i doing this is spewing out my thoughts and pains. but just. i just can't.

in rememberance.

2009-10-21T22:05:00.002+01:00

rest in peace adam.

i still can't believe youre dead. not that we were best friends, best enemies but. but damn. you were so beautiful. i used to check myself before i went to tesco incase i ran into you.
you always said hi. always smiled.
one of the only ones made of something, in to something, looking like something real.
such a shame. so sad.

your dad, man. your dad at your service everytime i looked at him i saw you and then nothing. a blur. he even sounds like you, laughs like you. your mum must be in hell no that you're not here.
remember when we found out the guy i said hi to every morning, the guy my dad said hi to in town, the guy my mum waved to every day was the same guy: your dad.
everyone seems to have a connection to you bro.

i still can't believe it.
live on in memories. never be forgotten.

no love lost.

fucking lucky.

2009-06-15T00:45:00.003+01:00

shit yeah.
oh, oh yeah. it's all so easy.
and i know that it will never be the same. i'll never be able to wax about you never be able to draw your face and write your words and i'll never be able to feel, with piercing clarity, the pain and love and frustration i felt before. never be able to rain this lyrical shit down about you about this because i know you don't have it in you. know i haven't met my match, know this isn't any great shakes, no earth shattering love. know i'll never have to bust my ass being 15 different girls for you, know i'll never work at keeping you in and on and under it, work on myself and you and us at every turn
but
but babe
i don't even want to.

i don't want to work, i just want to be what you want.

shit yeah, this is good. to be touched like this again, to be kissed.
i want you to talk about me like a bloke and want your friends to call me what they do and i want you to check me out when we're getting it on like you almost can't believe it and i want to smoke and drink and i want you to make me laugh and i do want you call me babe and text me all the time and i do want you to love that i dance and draw. i do, i do i do want to remember what you said when i first stepped to you and i do want you to be proud and to break the RULES and shit i do want you to watch me when you feed me chips/biscuits/rizla/powerade wathc my mouth and think damn.
i want you to think you're lucky.
look down at my tattoo and think, "shit yeah".

and i do want
i do want you.

dracula

2009-03-01T18:33:00.001Z

you are my
dracula.
stop fucking sucking my blood
stop stealing my shit
have fun
forgetting ME,
you free loading cunt.

i can't even remember your face.

other bitches just front.

2009-02-27T18:57:00.003Z

MIZZA MIZZA MAH NAAAAAME IS THE OL DURRRTY BAS, MY GAAAAAME, TO KICK YUH ASS
DUNA DUN DUN DUN DUUUN DADADADADADADA.

man i have just been fucking emersing myself in hip hop now that i am on holiday. COME ON BEBEH, BEBEH BEBEH BEBEH COME ONNN.
aka ol dirrty (duh) and biggie (me and sam went to see that fucking notorious movie the other day? it was fucking fresh - sam is killing it nowadays, i wish he wasnt short)and FUCK man i just only today ONLY TODAY can you fucking believe that? my mums home. anyway, only today, after listening to eminem for nearly TEN years i heard shit off his first signed album (infinite). its actually good, pretty ninties and low fi on the production, but that's what i like. nearly ten years, thats crazy. on a long enough time scale the life span for EVERYTHING drops to zero. 0. 0000.

fuck man, you know when youre just pretending, and everything is a front, flirtyflirty artyarty, oh. oh i know people want what i work, have you fucking seen my ass in these jeans?
actually it has got to the point now where that fucking prick doesnt even ask me HOW I AM after what, 2 months? of COURSE i am not going to have sex with you. nigguh please. please, i havent even thought about you, boy.
i'm in love with a married man. but he isnt married and i dont love him, but that would be sweet, candy sweet, to have that life. a life of a messy house that smells like leather, covered in car parts and ashytrays and bottles of whisky, little metal animals and corks. reading the paper and having sex and going out once it got dark on a sunday. him not shaving, me loving it. wearing his coat, that coat.

look. what i'm trying to say is:
sometimes i feel so lost, so lost in layers of pretending who i am to other people, i forget, and i turn into this other girl who is so confident and a little bit cocky and a little bit tough and that really isn't all of me. i think it's because all the new people i meet nowadays only need to see or talk to one facet of a person and me, them, we as a collective are safe in the knowledge that we will never know each other beyond the shallow and fucking time honored time hewn relationship of master and fucking servant.
yknow? and when i talk to someone about art, to someone who really knows about it and knows me, it feels like i need to cry, like opening your car window after youve been chain smoking to an icy blue cloud of a night. it's so refreshing.
i miss it like hell. i miss being surrounded by it permanently, not have to set a day aside to hammer shit into google and youtube and keep. on. pretending.

on top of all of it i guess now i am sort of happy. i have stopped moping - that's 1 thing to cross of my list. i am so
so
so
glad i am not in a relationship, a boy/girl ting. sometimes i think i am really clamouring after that closeness but in every fight i see, every argument i hear i think "thank fuck. thank fuck that is not me"
like a physical RELIEF man, atlas shifting the heavens down. an immeasurable weight.

an icy blue cloud of a day, of a night; of a life.

distant lover.

2009-02-12T16:36:00.002Z

(lover, your lover, your lover.)
a while ago something like this would have floored me, but we started the same washing powder your mother used to and everytime i got wet i thought of you. hugging you when i got there, leaning on you, high, on the way home but most of all every afternoon, every morning, every night everytime when i would go down on you. there's me in a towel, remembering nuzzling into your dark grey boxers smelling so clean and fresh and new, kissing and breathing in that smell getting hotter with my breath which now happens when i bury my face in towel instead of in you.

it's funny, isn't it?
not funny ha ha, but funny.
different - not better, not worse, just different.

i don't know whether to cry or whether to not give a fuck. richer, happier, freer, more grown up, more pared down, i'm the fucking lite stealth fucking mark II version of myself i know. but, but still. i get told all these things, things you never even told me, about myself, compliments and invitations and suggestions and i feel like my middle is being bounced about like a ball, sloshed about like a cup in a car, and at the same time i don't care. i feel still as a stone.
part of me is old, old, old. creaky ruin. part of me regresses, turns to a child.

imagine if that time, she did die, thrown from a cliff.
now imagine if i had died that time, the time my car turned into spikes and boxes trying to keep me in.

how do you feel?
how do you feel now?

rubbernecking

2008-12-15T17:55:00.004Z

does anyone else get that sick swelling sense of perversion, of interest, of vertigo?
does anyone else read those shitty real-life stories in cheap women's magazines and want to know the gory details behind the words "abused horrifically" or "tortured brutally"? because i fucking do.
it is the same part of me that takes pleasure in the bruises i aquire. the same part of me that made me keep pulling, keep pushing, keep attacking the huge graze on my fingers after my car crash.
in fact, it's exactly the same part of me that loves it, FUCKING LOVES IT, when someone tries so so hard to duplicate me and fails. ooh-hoo, man, it's like listening to offensive joke, when you shouldnt and you dont but you laugh that someone dared to do it.
it isn't funny, the things you said, but its pure comedy that you dared say them to ME.
it didn't make me laugh, the way you phrased and punctuated, capitalised and checked your words, but it made me roar that you tried to reciprocate my fucking prose.

honey, sugar, dumpling, darling, love and light of my life
don't
ever
fucking
call me baby again.

for the first time EVER

2008-11-20T11:51:00.002Z

for the first time ever i've wanted to tell you all the shit i've done, all the nasty, bad, horrible, natural, normal things i've done to you when all the while i played the most innocent, the most strong-willed, the most stoic little girlfriend who lived far away and never did a thing wrong.
well, it was kind of a lie.
for the first time ever i've wanted to tell you how i've slept with other people since we broke up. i wanted to tell you all the shit i ever did, i want to tell you all this stuff so you can hate me as much as i hate you and you can we can forget about each other in little clouds of bad residual tastes-in-our-mouths. yeah, fuck fuck fuck, i slept with someone else that time we "broke up" for a few months. no, fuck that, i was someone's girlfriend, he loved me, we did everything together in those two months, and you even got mad when you thought i'd just kissed him. after that, i had the worst sex ever with another guy who i kissed before, fuck, before time even started it feels like. i kissed, i slept - i mean really slept so tenderly, so close, so comfortably and peacefully - with one of my friends, one of your friends. we'd been to his house together. we had sex a few months before the end. it was awkward, it was so cathartic.i mean, god, before that i wanted something, ANYTHING so badly that i had nearly had it with you, but after him i thought "no, this is NOT what i want, i want you." hahahaaaaaaaaaaa. find THAT funny. right?

fuck.
i thought about all this all yesterday, all last night, all this morning when i was in the shower, washing, shaving my pubic hair into a neat strip ready for getting laid when maybe it should have been a heart, an arrow, his initials, your initials, a fucking jolly roger and the words "abandon hope, all ye who enter here", for you are getting to get used in ammunition in a silent tirade, as fodder for an attack on someone who doesn't even know what fucking hit them.
aw yeah. that's right - this is what i do now. i'm a fucking slag a fucking slut fucking low-cut topped and short skirted scum of the fucking earth. and i do miss you. your camaraderie, your sex.
but to know that you can dive just straight into another girl...i mean, when did you really stop giving a fuck? it must have been a l-o-n-g time ago because, shit, i've found someone to sleep with but i haven't found someone to match me. i wasn't even looking and i don't think there even is another half another zig to fit my zag anywhere. i'm just too much. i'm just so ALL OF THAT that i don't even think he exists. it certainly wasn't you - we were just well practised. but you, you have a little foreign arty girlfirend to match your foreign arty tendencies.

you know, it's funny. i can't even imagine you treating anyone as bad as you treated me when we started out. you were such a thoughtless cunt. i can't even imagine you doing it to anyone. maybe i was just a little practise run. i think all the time you thought it wasn't serious, even when it was, because of the distance. i hope it's all fine, i hope you are yin and yang bread and butter fucking ink and paper just so, just so when you have your unintelligent little children, they'll hate their dad as much as you hate yours, and they'll fuck their mum up just as much as you fucked yours.
that's my poison, that's my fucking vitriol. it feels good, don't it? it feels almost as good as making out with someone in my car for hours just because i can. it almost feels as good as having people tell me thats the best blow job ive ever had, that's the first time in my life, yada yada yada. it almost feels as good as when he touches me in just the right place on my ribs, on my neck and it makes my body scream. it almost feelsas good as all times i thought we were good together, all the times it worked so well, we got on so perfectly, all the times we turned each other on.
almost.
this is my lament, this is my epitaph, ain't it sad? it's almost as sad what actually happened. it's almost as sad as the end, where nothing really happened, it just fell apart through realisation and aching pains. it's almost as sad as while i've been writing this to hurt you, to fell you, the fact is you probably did it all first. you lied, you cheated, you fucked you kissed you joked. i know you did, i just know it as sharply as the juice from an apple, the way the peel is so crisp it sometimes cuts your gums and leaves little blooms of blood on the nearly-white flesh. i know it that clearly and yet, i still want you to know, still want you to cry and to give a fuck.

but you don't, and that's really the crux of the matter. you just fucking don't.

although possibly, even though.

2008-10-23T21:30:00.003+01:00

so...this is it? this is what people do no? they really do fancy girls who look like boys and boys who act like girls? girls who are quivery and delicate and coarse and fucking cheap. but, shit - you look as if an Oscar grew soft little tits and blonde hair.
this is really what we're doing? people are throwing people from their houses, scared of neigh bours and decorators discovering nights of japanese rice crackers and google earth? this is what we're doing.
and jesus - this is what you're doing, isn't it? i, don't, care. please, please let me not care - i spent so long caring, so long worrying and making sure and being attentive. let me not care, for once. let me be the one to not return phonecalls, the one to want nothing, the one to be selfish, fuck i know it is disgusting but today i was cleaning a wine glass and i used my own saliva to get the dirt off. this is what i do now.
this is it, this is it. i'm tired, and fulfilled, i'm bored, bits are missing, the puzzle is complete, shit is transient, transience is shit. it's buttery, it's snappy...
this is what I'M doing:
i don't write with capitals, i don't know where Skopje is but i do know how to spell it, i am fucking sarcastic and i will shit on you, lyrically, poetically with fucking finesse and wit like a falling box of brand new gilettes if you assume i'm stupid, you posh wanker. you filthy cur, you fucking sonofabitch.

some of this shit is just so funny i want to crash my car in painful laughter and emerge from the smoking, steaming, blackened wreck pealing like the laughing fucking policeman and you will be FREAKED, THE FUCK, OUT.

where in the fuck did you geddit

2008-10-03T11:09:00.002+01:00

god i feel like shit.
what am i doing with my fucking life. why am i working? what for? what is my fucking life force, my core, my raison d'etre? fucking nothing. i feel like the millionaire who does nothing all day and says "money doesnt make you happy"

all of my friends have gone. i wish i had the time to see them.
the ones who havent may as well have done - i am happy for them, they are paired up and content, even if theyre not working (or they are). this is so shit it's so shit. it's this time of year maybe i don't know. bronze sun not white sun.
im fucking tired of going to the same place every fucking day, making sticky desserts and serving black and yellow beer to people i don't want to know, i don't want locals or regulars i want my own life back. i feel like a part of some one elses life even though im not.
i have no middle i have no reason for any of this. AT ALL. honestly ive been thinking about that for a week and i cant think of anything. i know what should be there but it isnt and i know what i want there but it isnt.

i dont want this i dont want any of this and i cant stop thiking about you and i hate hate hate myself for it.

no!

2008-07-21T21:56:00.006+01:00

i just read a stupid fashion blog about someone who clearly doesn't really know what she's talking about. just opinions about red carpet shit, which isn't real clothes; real fashion.

shall i make this a fashion blog?

kidding.

but seriously, i have been wondering why at the cusp of adulthood we have to stop doing fun things and behave. why? why is it stupid to go on a swing? it is a viscerally fun thing to do. why can't i wear a giant baby gro? it isn't fair. i want to wear a bumblebee suit, but this will be frowned upon. but no one gives a damn about that stupid guy who pretends to be blind in cirencester!

i like people who dress like cartoon characters.

amy winehoue rules. she is billy holliday reincarnate. kind of.

luella bartley's ss08 is one of the coolest collections ever created. it is consistently awesome, the models wore their hair like mickey mouse and masks like batman. the bat mark was all over tshirts and the had those stupid glasses but they arent really glasses which i usually hate but in this case i shall make an exception.

M.I.A. is fucking badass. some of her tracks are shit but then what do you expect from someone so interesting and insane. she dresses like mowgli if you told him about comic book superheroes but never showed him a picture. which is good, because jungles are my theme. as well as urbz and comic books, obviously.

ah. noice.

here is a playlist of stuff i have been listening to:

1. on call - kings of leon. i just love that song.

2. black eye/burnt thumb - metronomy. fucking buff and fucked up. electro and reminds me of this year.

3. jumbalaya - fats domino. goldfish pie, billy gumbo. i love fats domino. he wants the shortnin bread, i can tell.

4. jungle boogie - kool and the gang. tarantino soundtracks, more cheesey hip hop.

5. bird flu - m.i.a. still play this so much when it is sunny. mad.

6. detchibe - prefuse 73 (or the whole of 'one word extinguisher' album). just bought it, awesome sunsetting music. also checking out tom yorke's latest album which is pretty interesting.

7. c'est la vie - chuck berry. basically i have been at roxy's jukebox again.

8. el manana - gorillaz (metronomy remix). reminds me of green lights, tom vek. and i still love damon albarn.

9. quem que caguetou - tejo and black alien speed with fatboy slim. bad ass hip hop beat with brazilian break beats and vocals over the top.

10. all around the world - little richard. ditto about the jukebox comment but also i did just watch explorers.

xxx

p.s. a quick word about films: mama mia was atrocious, wanted was messy but okay, and i watched mean machine this week which i really liked.

and books: dont read anything to do with manchester united, or tony o'neill.

late, late, late.

2008-06-10T14:44:00.004+01:00

hey, i've been meaning to tell you this for ages :
one day i made my mouth bleed with my own mind.
i was thinking of something so awful as to set my teeth on edge - you know, the thought cutting your nail with a razor, chewing tin foil - and sucked, and my mouth just poured blood for a minute.

here's my muxtape:
nummo.muxtape.com

there's only one song on it at the moment, but that's okay isn't it?

ive

2008-04-28T21:23:00.000+01:00

hit such a brick wall.

I feel your hands, your lips the heat of your body
Whisper you love me, you say you love me
Please don't dumb it down and never leave me
I'm a dreamer

some words from when i was flirteen.

2008-03-28T20:23:00.003Z

gut from the front AND
grind from the side AND
fuck from behind AND
grab her hair slap her butt screamin like she dyin.

- nas.

deep seeded urban decay, deep seeded urban decay
rip down posters alight from last week's big garage night and the next Tyson fight.
i cook them at 90 degrees farenheit, and don't copy the copyright
i got them in my sights
blinded with the lights
taken to dizzy new heights
blinded by the lights, blinded by the lights
dizzy new heights

- mike skinner

she'll want you much more for not hangin on, stop me if i'm wrong, stop me if i'm wrong - why should SHE be the one to decide if its off or on or on or off or on

i remember hearing that in the art room and thinking WHAT THE FUCK! THIS IS AWESOME.

lord love a duck.

2008-01-13T15:42:00.000Z

god fucking damn i was so sick last night.
i can't even believe i got home i couldn't see or hear and everything felt like i was under a thick see-through blanket and the world was streetlight coloured and i concentrated on: limp pathetic horrible little rolly in my hand, big black hard shoes, the ground.
and fuck i was so sick i stumbled around my house naked and with no glasses and i couldn't see a fucking thing and, o, it is like rolling down a hill only in your head or like someone else has control of your eye functions and head functions your head is a boat someone else is the sea but your body is the house for this microcosm.
my sick was clear with flecks of black like a vile version of that vodka that has little gold bits in it to cut your throat and get you fucking drunk quicker. sick and sick again, on my knees praying to the toilet. kissing the seat. hurting my knees on the floor, i was probably being prayed on by spiders and their sticky webs and nets. isn't it funny that those tests the did on spiders came out like, the same as the patterns you see. like the one on acid did those amazing symmetrical patterns like the liquidy gooey ones you see on acid, and the one on ecstasy made a squarey web like the jewelled scarily geometric patterns you see on ecstasy. like, that actually scares me that my own self can produce patterns i could never draw, never even imagine how to draw. boy-oy it's you, and the the things you do, to me, that makes me love yooou, now i'm livin in ecstasy.
that is why the mayans the golden mayans made those inconceivable patterns, they take shamanic hallucinogens and which induce these patterns occuring in our brain naturally unlocking our little squidgy grey brains.
i saw a pickled brain once.
and i'm just so ugly and dirty and dry and wet and flaky and greasy that the only part that makes me feel beautiful is the feel of my eyelashes pressing against the curve of my fingertip, feeling large three, five times their width and yet not. really. they feel as if they could go on forever and i visualise, i see their blackness at the roots to the blondeness at the tips. they feel like feathers ready to fly away.

the only time i have ever been political and meant it.

2007-08-15T22:37:00.000+01:00

so i have been thinking alot about the world. for once, i managed to get outside the circle of my own head.
and i have been thinkin we have really fucked our planet. we've really done a number on it. we are never going to save it's bacon, we're going to slaughter it, in a halal kosher motherfucking organic way, splash it's blood all over the walls and cook its bacon to a crisp.
hondouras, bangladesh, asiatic, turkey, britain - the world is trying to eat us all with all it can, the earth, the water, the sky.
america, iraq, bosnia, sri lanka, gaza - you are eating yourselves for fucks sake you fucking idiots. i watched the tv and for the first time felt the pain felt the reality of those scorched children, innocently smooth skins, newly textured with the artex of burnt legs the dark blood staining gurneys and smashed heads and crying mothers i mean they have to heal they have to fucking recooperate and scar. you fucking idiots.
when we look back on WW1 and 2 we think, christ, brutal bastards killing those innocents, christ look at the damage they did to london with bombs abd bullets isnt it so crude and unenlightened i mean wasnt it just terrible.
you are still doing it you fucking idiots you are still killing people for not even any reason.

so everything i think has reached boiling point. everyone is going mad. i hear on the radio kids are torturing and killing men with downs, people are raping babies, blueberry is the new pomegranate, youre drinking diet drinks and your teeth will STILL fall out, people dont recycle, people do. we are all crazy.

you know why i think it is? you know how animals, they run they fall a-fucking-part when something is wrong. they know. instinct. this is what humans are doing on a cripplingly inaffective level. we're all going mad because the world's going to end and yknow what?
yellowstone park will blow its stagnant top and kill us all. and maybe, just maybe it will be so exciting we'll all top watching our tvs and cry "BIG BROTHER IS SO SHIT!"

sick

2007-07-13T12:37:00.000+01:00

i am so glad that i'm not you.

however: i'm not particularly psyched to be me either.

mushroo-ooms!

2007-07-01T09:56:00.000+01:00

every day when i wake up a single word is written in purple on my bedstead.
the word is mushroom.

mush room

do you think they are called mushrooms because their gills are made up out of tiny rooms that are mushy.
or is it because when you squash them they don't take up mush room.

p.s.
i had a dream the other night. the bar where i work had changed, it was underground, glowingly lit as if by laterns that work in abandoned tunnels of the underground. the walls were hewn from mud and painted in parts with yellow paint. the new barmen and barmaids were people, kids, i used to go to school with, all wearing black. the new landlord was a thin old man.
the glass washer (a mini metal dishwasher) was swollen and white and inside was red, plates, alot of red, and caught in a recess in the door were the bodies of tiny frozen bright yellow chicks, like my boyfriend keeps to feed their birds. except they weren't chicks - their heads were the bare skulls of tiny rodents, their noses sharp and brittle, their teeth miniscule and sharp, still covered in patchy yellow down. their black eyes glinted in the steamy light and i shouted out, sickened. they were still alive, but still, switching from skulls to nosed, whiskered little white creatures.

dont you realise, dreams mean nothing

2007-06-28T20:50:00.000+01:00

i am fond of making sweeping, groundbreakingly terse statements.
i like to sum up events, moods, relationships, bundle them into a nutshell and roast them for sale on the bank of a cold grey slice of river.
i always catch myself saying:
"you always"
"it always seems"
"everytime i"

or things like:
"i have never met anybody like you"
"i have never been in a relationship like this"

and especially the word "literally" i used this word every fucking day. literally, i am not joking fucking, what, do i read everything in a book. is everything a newspaper story, am i a journalist to my own life? why is everything so comfortable? so boring? where have i gone, where did i come from? what happened to me to make me like this? the sum total of about 3 actual things that have affected my life? the countless more fleeting inward struggles i inflict upon myself, for no reason, with no gain, with no cause?

sometimes, i want to laugh at you and your stupid massive problems.
sometimes, i just think your huge, heart-shatteringly life is fucking pathetic.
sometimes i want to shout at you, and scream that all these big fucking fanfare events that happened to you mean fuck all, they mean absolutely fuck ALL if you don't have any inner showers of sparks of disease and melancholy and suicide that you want to acknowledge.
sometimes i want to tell you that your dreams mean nothing, and laugh in your face like a rusty boat close to shore, spit on your trainers and say that no one cares what youre hiding because they never want to find it and they never want to know you because you, you simply don't want to know them.

and i will leave you on the concrete boardwalk, they grey blue sky bringing a bruise to the ice blue water, sprays leaping up and joining the blue air, crying with red around your eyes in rings and i will stare at you, staring at the floor, distance between us in the deafening wind and wonder, and wonder why i ever found mystery in someone like you.

dreams

2007-06-21T12:15:00.000+01:00

last night, i dreamt:

that i coughed up an entire mouthful of phlegm so sticky that when i spat the two-coughs worth cloud of shit into the sink some of it had harded like shards of bendy plastic and i had to wretch like morning sickness to feel free of it.

that i sat in a cafe with enormous ceilings and enormous chairs, and we ordeded food but i had to leave, and i was overcome with the feeling that i was abandoning my friend into the utter empty lonliness i feel when a friend goes home after staying the night; rainy days.

whilst i was sleeping, my face sticky with the creams and tinctures of girlhood, these images and guttural feelings of sleep flew in and out of my mind at appalling speed, the constant agon of sleep and reason waging in my warm little skull. whilst i lay, warm and despondent, my soft, hot body floating, i dreamt of these disgusting images, things which repeat in my mind as i cough over the kitchen sink.
things that circulate and surface in the inner soup of my brain over and over, like:

"human papilloma virus".
the feeling of tonguing the narrow dip of a salmon's single vertebrae from inside my bony sandwich.
and, occasionally the phrase "our faces numbed by cocaine", from a story i once read.

these memories retain themselves in me like a perverted plant who sets it's vicious seeds in the fur of passing animals and sits, malevolent, in the damp corners of brain, waiting to disgust me;

giving me the strange sensation of delicious horror i've always got from reading about dead animals, torture, slavery, victorian crime.

ALSO ACTUALLY

2007-04-12T18:38:00.000+01:00

i do not want to eat sheep today that metallic taste and metallic smell you may as well just give me some ketchup to go with that firelighter because i will NOT fucking touch that fucking slice of baaaaa.

Dear C.,

2007-04-12T18:22:00.000+01:00

isnt it funny how you can instantly totally disike someone, even let yourself into hating them (in that kind of, i-dont-mean-it, it-is-the-opposite-of-love kind of way) just because. even if you barely know them.
i hate you.
i hate you so much its like a swelling a green purple red blue orange swelling, ripe and pending, pregnant almost with my seeping sweet and sour, bitter hatred of you. i hate you more than: eople i know, people whohave wronged me, people i've met. thats asyndetic listing, an asyndetic list of i hate you. it's such a delicious flavour of dislike, such a taste which lets me spit and frolic my vitriol internally, like the creamy inner workings of the earth without ever getting burnt myself, without ever getting a circular falling ash burn or acidic flare of pain or personal loss it is, it simply is hate. Oh it's so utterly fabulous, it is just so divine. I hate you so splendidy and you don't know. And every time i see your things, everytime I see your name I think. Wouldn't it be marvellous to tell you? Wouldn't it be marvellous to, in all seriousness, you those words so serious, those three beautiful syllables which express so much which explode from each of us, that little triad of: I. Hate. You.

the funny thing is though
i dont think you'd care.

loose/

2007-03-28T20:41:00.001+01:00

i just dont have the drive for this anymore.
i dont have the energy the life the pull the push the up the down the sideways to enjoy what i always enjoyed.
everything keeps ruining the things i like, the things i love and turns them into some fucking ball of nothing like blank cloth and empty box dustsheets just, fuck all. really.
photography is something i just dont enjoy now. deadlines kill it, other people kill it it just feels like flogging so many dead horses where i know i wont progress because i cant anymore.
art is the same yknow it just. is a constant pull. a constant competition with some people who just continually shove it in my face how much they know and how much i dont about the workings, the process, the education, the business daaaahling.
i couldnt give a fuck. im just packed up to the motherfucking hilt with stuff im not really sure i care about anymore.
i dont know fuck it. maybe i just feel like im lviving under the umbrella of too many things and i need my own

thankyou ian.

2007-03-14T15:29:00.000Z

my phlegm used to taste like fucking shit and now ive seen so much of it it tastes like nothing to me. ugh my whole head just feels full of bitumen of glucose of solids suspended in liquids that when i wince, i wince hard packaged compresses wrapped in gauze either side of my head through my ears. the canals in my head are full of that expanding foam you use to fill up holes in walls but with less air, full of pva glue pva glue or oilslick.
im pretty sure thats a thin an almost microscopically thin layer of body tissue from inside my head somewhere inside my face by bones by tubes my brain. blood-red and full of lines on my perfectly folded white tissue. i wince hard packages with softer edges when i bend down the same hard packages swell in my head boom boom boom like the beat of a sickening drum that worries water in cups as they jolt across the table.
we sing hallelujah. hallelujah for the common cold, the flu virus, the MRSA and c-dif virus. we praise on high for you my tiny tiny generals. cull, cull the weak the young the old the normal, cull those weak enough to fall pray to your vicious teeth. cull those business men eating lemon-flavoured sherbet, the young women eating astringent lozenges filled with glorious amber or crimson liquids. for one day we all know you will take over the earth. and what happens then? fuck all you breeding idiots, whose tissues will you live in now? whose absence records will you boost? nobody's.
anyway.
i like that headache pills are made from willow trees. it all sounds so wonderfully melancholic to me.
i am going to build a huge tower a tower piled up above the heads of lesser men a tower all about me and oh. oh if i tumble to the ground. if i fall, i will crush you all.

home.

2007-02-26T12:26:00.000Z

coming home speeding along i mean really speeding along the motorway the dual carriage ways overtaking being overtaken in this torrential rain.
this total down pour.
the sky turned pink over the tops of dark trees and it fucking pissed down. i read and thought frozen with hands frozen eyes frozen mouth frozen. a group of birds; seagulls wander in and out of existence as they pull across like-coloured pieces of cloud.
home is so dull now. my family the place of comfort they just. they feel so stagnant, no longer comfortable just too worn down to fit anymore. i dont know it's kind of saddening.
and now now i have this full calendar and a schedule and busyness to be being i feel so pressured so stressed. its the first time in my life ive felt markedly stressed. i dont like it. but then if i dont want that, what do i want?
i just wish the tide would ebb. i always seem to end up doing things i dont quite want to do.
i skived off school to finish a painting and its shit. am i hard on myself? i don't know. i just wish things came out like they are in my head. maybe my head is too hard on itself.
i wish i was better at rolling with the punches but i go down like a sack of shit.

i dont want anybody to read this entry please.

2006-12-30T14:16:00.000Z

so then.
why is everyone's heart set on making me feel even worse today.
so go on then, kiss me even if i just want to cry.
show me a picture of your ex's tits it's totally fine.
tell me off for wanting to get fucked.
call me a slut.
make fun of me.
hurt my throat.

i have realised im unhappy. i dont know i dont know. i just dont feel in control of myself anymore i feel like i am going through the motions in every aspect of my life. i feel like i felt when i was on so much codeine. just disconnected. something's stopping from doing everything i want to do.
an OH OH OH OH OH MY god.
what am i even doing to myself?
oh. i have fucked my whole life up havent i. for the sake of a few quid some drugs some rain some lies some dirty dancefloors.
i just fucking, i dont want to speak to you if ALL YOU CAN DO IS BE OK. I JUST WANT TO FUCKING DIE TODAY I WISH MY DREAM HAD SWALLOED ME UP AND SPIT ME OUT THE OTHER SIDE OF CONCIOUSNESS. I JUST WISH I DIDNT EVEN KNOW ANYBODY I DIDNT KNOW LOVE I DIDNT KNOW BOYS THESE BOYS WHO WERE ARE WILL BE IN LOVE WITH ME I JUST WANT THEM ALL TO FUCK OFF. IM SO ANGRY. IM SO SAD. I AM SO FUCKING FED UP OF HOW PATHETIC I AM HE IS THE OTHER HE IS. WHY IS EVERY SUBJECT IN MY LIFE SO FUCKING TRIVIAL. I MEAN, FUCK YOU NIETZSCHE - ITS UNAVOIDABLE because things do matter in relativity its just fucking boring.
FUCKING BORING MAN. all of everything bores me. i just want my own life back again. i dont want to have to traipse everywhere looking at dead squirrels and drinking coffee or riding buses or going out at night and pretending to be happy. i just want you all to leave me alone and let me do the things which make me feel sad if i dont do them.
like work and art and just OH I JUST AM SO TERRIBLE. what terrible hands terrible stomach terrible eyes i live inside. i say all this but i know i wont do it. i dont have the drive. i want drive more than anything more than even happiness or love or anything.
i want my ginger hair back. i want the summer back where all i did was draw and the pencil became my hand my hand became the paper my love was the lines i drew.
why now am i the one always being upset and stuff when usually i am the listener.

it is raining. and dark. oh pathetic fallacy.

i hate that smell of stew. it reminds me of the time i was sick.

last night

2006-12-28T17:23:00.000Z

i had a dream.
in my dream there were losses. in a bowling alley, a shop i think we were- i dont know. my mother lost her things and was inconsolable.
outside we huddled, jack my dad my mother and i, with me under a yellow knitted blanket. the buildings in the street were made from those pretend red bricks, everything was dusty everyone wore coats. there were loads of couples around, older balding men with black or grey hair, beige coats.
the next bit is patchy - i remember strong manly arms reaching around me reaching around my legs around between my legs and me trying to push them away.
i remember a film called the black window the we were going to see.
the man who reached around me marched us off to a plateau in the street behind some gates, i could hear crying and screaming. on the plateau there was a man with a shaved head torturing my friend. to the side 3 of my other friends were sitting on wooden benches screaming and crying; they had bruises, swollen eyes, bloody mouths, cuts from their arms. one friend was screaming. the other friend was covering her eyes with film negatives, sometimes trying to fit them like monicles between her dark brows and cold cheeks, sheilding her eyes from the torture. the next friend had the worst injuries and was shouting to the torturer what do to next. this was the torture - they had to give instructions or they themselves would be hurt, or the current victim would be killed.
the current victim has thin needles in their face, were being sliced. the instructions shouted were vile and i had to watch.
an african man appeared and screamed at the torturer. the victim was forced suddenly all the way through a fine grid of blades and i saw their faceas they disappeared below the dark wooden stage.
soon after this i was in a tiny cinema with roxanne - an advert came up about using a condom. the advety was baby pink and mint green. the audience laughed; it was ironic in some way.
i shouted about how shit films were getting, how i always expected them to be good and they werent. i felt sick at what i had just seen but i didnt know if it was real or cinema.

then i woke up next to jack and everything was ok.

crossed and kept me safe.

2006-12-17T23:05:00.001Z

anyway so here is a poem i wrote a long long time ago which i never liked. but i just found it and i think i like it. i never write poems anymore.

Tonight
Is the first night
In so long
That I have turned the light off and not thought
Of any of you.

I would lie
Arms crossed around myself
Arms crossed and kept me safe.
Imagining the sound of the
Door-swings-open
Or the TV-left-on
And fall asleep smiling.

But instead I lie
Eyes open
Forcing objects to make themselves known
Remembering books I never finished
Feeling regret
At a stack of yellow paper.

Tonight
The false glow of the lights outside
Make it all so real
And I cant contain how much I hate it.

I would lie
Being awoken by the abruptness of my sleep.
I would think
Of my eyes as shells,
Filled with fluid,
Lined with lines,
And let them get dry.

Tonight is now older,
So much so it becomes the day.
The sounds I hear now are:
The door slams shut
The TVs broken
And the beep of you on a tape.

I dont listen.

And I am finding it so hard to sleep.

I listen to the footsteps made by a clock
Walking through my wall
And the stone of my house.
Like the street outside, the open hallway
Like the cold wooden stage
And like your watch -
I give up trying.

i am getting ready to write something so big. so big i just, i just cant even think of the shape or the size or the colour of it in my head i just know it's filled with lines upon lines upon thousands of lines of pure utter and unadulterated genius that it'll be like a cold cold cold blue wind blowing men in ties and creased trousers and business suits until their grey-an-black hair is gone and all that's left is my green sofa and the comfortable recognition of being fucking beautiful.

company calls epilogue.

2006-12-14T11:18:00.000Z

i have just stumbled upon a terrible realisation.
what if, one day, i myself become the guy in that deathcab song? and i instead am the one regretting a hugehugehuge mistake later on in life. oh, oh no.
i always thought it would be someone else. i suppose it must happen with every wedding - someone thinking "oh, shoot."

i dont know why but that song has always seemed very real to me. (i know it's just a song.)

honest-y.

one week.

2006-11-22T00:07:00.000Z

my life
right now
is like a massive duvet. how when you're little it swamps you, and your parents roll you up in it all tight and tubey, until it gets quiet and you get claustrophobic (even though you like the thrill) and you call out for help again and again.
that is what i feel. i am trapped in all this warm-coloured half-light and i know what it is and if i really look im sure i know what it is.
but i just can't find my way out
because i dont know which way up i am.

but i think i want you to want something. and i know you want the opposite.
and the same goes for me.

that's what you are ipkiss,

2006-10-21T21:26:00.000+01:00

Im just wondering about this divide between happy and sad.
i just watched television and i watched that horrific bit of footage from the poll tax riots, where the sway of horses just eat him, voracious appetetive in the stunning atrocity.
it made me fall quiet.
the first horse knocks him aside, the horses then trample him and you can see his body a soft bag now in a leather jacket just bruise and pulp. i imagine that is what happens, anyway. you know, the reality of all those sharp shards of dry bone don't exist in my imagination for that, all is is a mushy bag inside clothes like rotten fruit.

so this is sad. so is watching the ku klux klan perform their sad little rituals. watching them clash in their sad little outfits against sweating black men with spades. sad remembering a picture of a sweating black man, 'KKK' raised across his broken belly.

and what you told me is sad. the conspirational. the politics the corruption the problems the frauds the fakes. the, what do you say, the so-po context that is so sorely wrong. i'm trying to be opinionated and passionate herebut everything is so uninformed. but i'm trying. that's really sad.
you know, that night changed my life a little.

and on one hand (my right hand) that sadness is appealing. it is my little temptress. femme fatale; sadness, worldy fatigue, apathy, oh sweet MAIDEN of fucked up beauty and piercing humanity. and i want her.
but on the other hand, the left one, the one that is left: happiness is attractive. happiness i think wants not to bed me, like sadness does, but rather happiness is that charismatic amazingly idiosyncratic uncoupled Amelie-oid. i want this too, i want this to engulf my life with warm infatuation.
like my first proper boyfriend was with me.
yeah i think i could love happiness.

and i think that: am i supposed to be entirely for one or the other? am i entirely temptress? am i but an apple on your little rotten tree?

or am i one of those easy-to-fall-for quirks; a book-reading sticker-lover of a person?

or, to be this nice, whole i am searching for, am i both?
is there a time for happy and a time for sad? is there a time for watching heart-squeezing television, and then a time for dancing around in a stupid hat trying to sing? does that work?

i mean, why the fuck should i let either rule me. i am not a donkey on a pleasurebeach of emotion. i am the rider, i bear the whip: i'm the fucking ringleader baby.

and with this. i am once again drawn to that stickly, liberating, massaging, piss and vinegar kiss-of-life phrase:
FUCK YOU.
FUCK YOU LIFE. WILL YOU STOP TRYING TO RULE ME? IF YOU'RE MARIO AND I'M GAMEBOY, THEN WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU WHEN MY BATTERY IS OUT?
NOWHERE, YOURE NOTHING, NADA, NIENTE, RIEN RIEN RIEN. a big fat zero.

try and fix that with a wrench and washer you italiano greasy-chinned dickless cunt.

on finding butterfly wings.

2006-09-25T22:16:00.000+01:00

Is everyone special? does everyone carry beautiful and strange moments, wonderful secrets; the kinds of times that marry harsh ununsualness with beauty, or being alone with the sonorus witnessing of something purely personal, buzzing in the tongue of your mind: alka seltzer of perfection.

does everyone have a measureless piece of awe they could fit into a piece of foreign cinema?

Imagine if you told someone everything from your mind, your heart, youre little soul, your every anomalous sliver of humanity in one sitting, unwrapped your absorbing theories and compelling thougths in a single go, like brightly-coloured sweets in cellophane. You'd be out of stock. you'd become so entirely naked as a person, stripped the colour of toilet paper, bare and hollow.

maybe every secret, or inadvertant secret, or hidden thing you collect inside the envelope of your ribcage is meant for a different friend, a different person. Maybe your fragments are all sent away as if in a quiet airport or an obscure tube station at night to be with someone else.

does everyone experience the beauty of an accidental amalgamation of events, feel it's sad weight, or is it the keeping of these inside yourself which makes it wonderful? giving them a place a miniature epitaph of rememberance.
Or, do some people let it go unnoticed, like light fittings in buses? how, they are damaged or grafittied or working or new - everyone cares very little if they were there or not. the people who sleep the second their smooth young faces hit the pillow. The people who always get the right equipment in lessons; know old wives tales.

i wonder when. i wonder who i'll share mine with. who theyre for. who theyre bound for or to be locked in me in selfish greed of this, o, fantasia of secrecy.
sometimes
i find it easier to explain to countless people who don't really listen
that one who really does.

JUST

2006-07-19T09:37:00.000+01:00

I spend so long trying to trick myself into believing I like the way I look or I think I'm not so bad or I think "hey this person thinks I'm attractive this person thinks this etc etc" that when I take a really good look at me. At how I look. At how I am. At what I do. I suddenly realise how wrong I am. And I just feel like someone's sat down on me because it feels for all the world like I have been deluding myself. And that is worse than deluding anyone else. And I feel like an idiot.
I do not want to be one of those people who prances around telling everyone how fucking great they are, and how gorgeous they are, and showing off, when everyone knows they're not.
it's like, awhile ago, I thought I was the only person, I was the coolest and prettiest - and then you realise, you're just gutted when you realise that there was someone before you. More beautiful. More thin. More cool. More perfect than anyone else. And you wouldn't even have had a look-in if everything had worked out.
I, am just so monumentally pissed off, that you can try and ry and try, and everything can go fine but it never, ever, fucking works. i still get sad. I still cry. I'm still overweight, I still have bad skin, I still get poor health, I still lie, I still seek to fucking hurt myselfover people from the past and just EVERYTHING I GOING WRONG. AND MAYBE IT'S ALWAYS BEEN WRONG AND I HAVE ONLY JUST NOTICED AGAIN, BUT IT STILL FUCKING HURTS. IT CANES LIKE A BITCH.

there's just so many things that are wrong you'll never understand.

crashhh.

2006-07-11T17:43:00.000+01:00

oh, well, you know what it's like -
right?
a dusty fucking suitcase
with dust inside
jesus. i could never know what was inside of you.

i am a waste of time and space.
i simply am not me.
but then again, i lie so much
who is going to know.

honeyloops

2006-06-16T15:58:00.000+01:00

ive been thinking about it and
bees really actually are busy little bastards.

think about how they have to fly ALL the time and push all the pollen onto their little legs and the must get so heavy, and the buzzing under their dense little coats must make them so hot.

english exam vs family

2006-05-18T20:31:00.000+01:00

so what, is, this.
why do i have to have an opinion, why do i have to disagree with the system why have i go to be so fucking argumentative.

today has sometimes been really great and sometimes really miserable. i think sometimes i am abit miserable because it doesnt quite fit yet, yknow?
i think when my friend Guy is sad it makes me really sad, and when he's happy i am. we are like brother and sister or something.

look
i know how you feel and i enjoy discussing. but i mean DISCUSSING not MEAN-TONE-OF-VOICE, RAISED VOLUME RED FACED ARGUING. I JUST DONT CARE ABOUT IT THAT MUCH OKAY.
i can design an opinion. i can write a persuasive, uplifintg, humourous speech with all these linguistic FEATURES these fucking TERMS like phatic utterance and anaphoric reference and THAT is okay.
i can understand the other side of any argument. a couple of things i cant, i cant agree with. most things though i can understand so JUST LET ME POSE THE OPPOSITE.
LET ME INTERUPT THIS GUTTARAL FLOW OF ANNOYANCE AND CONTINUAL FUCKING IRASCIBILITY.

oh you dumb fucks i bought out the big guns.

hey boy

2006-05-08T21:12:00.000+01:00

i love you.
you know really i actually do. even though sometimes just normal things or sad things or petty things get in the way or just fly around infront of it like a cellophane moth sticking to the tv show you really LIKE, even though, i still deeply love you. i remembered that time we talked for hours about depressing things and it's just nice to hear someone who thinks like me in an unfamiliar way.
it's always been like that for me, we've been so.. fitting, for/with/to each other but we've never, ever had to shove it in each other's faces or only had our lo-hove to talk about. i care about you as an actual person and i think that's so good it makes me feel just, proud, to have you under me (not like that but that too) and around me and in the back of me like, a bookmark you keep at the back until you need to mark a place. and the places are specal times i remember. which really is all of it.
you make me feel like i dont even know anymore when we're together im so, me and normal and me that i cant even tell where the physical space between us is anymore or if it's shrunk so little we're one big duvet kind of soft mess or if we are puzzle pieces that go clop like a big puzzle and youre the box you keep me in. sometimes when you touch me my sleepy head fills with colours and images and little scenes from imaginary plays like we hold hands and i get:
brightly coloured plastic things for children, turqouise, yellow purple black in the sun.
and you stroke my back and my shoulders and i get layers of brown and mint and pink spread like a kite taking off.

so, you make me trip. a touch from you brings a red shape from sleepy smoky darkness and you make me trip until everything all these images appear like tiny fireworks in my subconcious lying in your room like a big bath of you and your stuff and i trip.

he lost me left me.

2006-04-17T17:22:00.000+01:00

and o god o god
even my own body reminds me of you.

ding ding ding ding

2006-04-03T09:31:00.000+01:00

here are some things of this sort of time of year:
the smell of johnson&johnson's baby lotion spray mist (on my legs today.
the smell of those red satin shoes i bought and photographed and sent to you.

here are some songs you sent me exactly a yea ago:
blood brothers - guitarmy
ray charles - hit the road jack
bus driver - imaginary places
mclucsky - lightsabre cocksucking blues
serafin - sage waits

and they all live on leroy along with theme by arovane!
and i remember those days you came to mine and we listened to your ipod on your chest and we walked in fields and got sunburnt and drove to the station singing monkey ska against the wind and i think, WOW. even though that was much later.
and i remember listening to theme in paddington and we tapped each others legs in time to the music, and we discussed what rae was like and i said like unwrapping and you said yeah and smiled and said wow.

havent we had a good time?

you want me inject me bacteria

2006-04-02T21:56:00.000+01:00

i love the smell of dry ice.

learning

2006-03-23T10:10:00.000Z

i feel so good today.

so happy and level with myself. it's like nothing else is making me happy, just the realisation of the fact is all ive got. and in remembering years past, tins of orange-lidded spray, oak trees, grass, sun bouncing and stretching off white and red and red and white and the two mixing to make pink or white with holes, blowing bubbles in the garden, sewing machines, grey pebbles, pink dinosaurs, HEARTACHE BREAKING UP WRITING LETTERS WRITING MOE LETTERS RESTAURANTS FISH FUCKING LIME REGIS FUCKING BEACHES AND DUSTLY STONES ARCADES BEACHSIDES AND ORGANISATION. sweet organisation sweet itinery of springtime! o sweet motivation!

so, this is the clause of sunshine.
the rite of impending may.
the tradition, the magic, the empty open ceiling-less expanse of things to come.

im happy. happy without anything else. happy without walking happy without the truth happy with your secrets and the lies i get told and accept because, just in case. happy without making any noise, without singing along. happy alone in my house with the window. happy not doing what i should. happy being made jump by the postman. happy without all that stuff i think i NEED, jesus it feels so good to not think you need.
so much so that if i, with my bandage and applecore, were to stare outside for too long, up at the smudge of the glaring sun, it would appear closer, burning, so warm as to be a radiator in front of you, absurd brightness making my smile, my cheeks get rounder, my nose wrinkle up my eyes close, as we, the sun and i, come closer, my nose overexposed like my shitty webcam, hair up, grinning, beaming right back at the sun, until it's blind soft surface squishes into my face, and me, my crutches, my applecore and i are swallowed up by the burning yellow milk of the sun, enveloping me in istelf, smiling back in the burning sky white white white and white, i'd be happy.

selfish

2006-03-02T16:29:00.000Z

i'm losing all those things that matter.

2006-02-27T11:24:00.000Z

if only i couldt stop thinking i matter
to anyone
to anything
to any little tiny piece of existence in the world, including that which is inanimate, wood-coloured, made from glass a series of lenses, white fabric, red plastic objects, blue plastic objects, white walls, laminate flooring.

if only i could get it in to my head that i dont matter to anyone.
maybe i would stop staying at home torturing myself with things so predictably depressing, maybe i would stop printing out everything i've ever written and pasting it on my walls, maybe i would stop trying to contort my body into shapes in the floor after seconds grabbling with my spatial awareness figuring out which way to push to move me upwards in a kama sutra esque stretch of my hips and skin, maybe i would stop collapsing in tears.

if only i could stop thinking about myself as important. to anything.
then maybe i'd stop inventing predicaments to make myself the centre of imaginary attention.

if only i could know. know through and through, the truth. if only i could accept i mean fuck all to absolutely everything

it'd all be okay.

i believe in scissors.

2006-02-23T16:28:00.000Z

i need a beach.
a beach of pebbles, stones, round like sunken bubbles, bubbles going downwards, pressed my the thousand s's of the sea until they became heavy, heavy-coloured, heavy-sounded when they bounce down the breathing slopes, shining.
i need a beach, covered in a film of rain, a rain of silken freeze, a layer of glow, glow from the sky, falling like bubbles, pale powder bubbles which got trapped by a brown net of puddle, waited until the sun popped the bubbles, made them rise like dirty balloons, into clouds the colour of chewed paper.
i need a beach, with massive black rocks.
standing out, to face the sea, the sea the sky, the sea the sky sees me, wallpapered by cardboard, cliffs that if you were pushed back by some silent hand, would fit exactly would fit into the bends by your shoulderblades, go in where your spine lives, into the curve of the small of your back, the way it rises when it gets stroked.
i need a beach, i think, as the same stroking touches of snow, to stand on the blackest rock, to stare out to the whitest sky, the coldest wind, incased in a coat, asking the rest of everything with a million blacklines, blue circles, black circles, white rubbings out for eyes, asking it all everything i want to know and can i change?
can i change to be that. can i forget those things that keep me from getting on. focus on being better than anyone could have ever been instead of sweeling with wet when you think for someone else.
so lets use the steel of the wet and the steel of the sky to make blades like the leaves on a branch in a road full of trees. to make blades, to cut the pieces we dont want, cut off the ties which cross the bad parts with the bad parts, cut the bubbles in honeycomb of our hearts, release antyhing that keeps us back. lets form blades from streets and bridges and pavement, make blades into scissors.
pairs of swinging blades pinned together with everything that was ever cold. we can make these, and once they cut through all that ochre string, they fall they fall and tumble and no one ever thinks of them, pressed into those same silver bubbles, round and round and round underfoot, round and round and round for my eyes, roun round round round round in the freezing weather untilwe fall down ourselves and wake up cut, bruised, but new and perfect.

i believe in scissors.
to cut us into strips to burst bubbles and soak up everything.

bjork - unravel

2006-02-02T19:46:00.000Z

while you
are away
my heart comes undone
slowly
unravels
in a ball of yarn
the devil collects it
with a grin
our love
our love
in a ball of yarn
he'll never return it
and when you come back
we'll have to make new love.

its well COLD in my house right here

2006-01-14T22:53:00.000Z

sometimes i think when the heating is switched off the radiators pump cool air.

so my parents are arguing about my disabled uncle.
first of all, jesus christ he's disabled.
and i dont really know how i feel about the whole thing really.
my dad is saying and has always said that my mothers family shouldnt give the nurses and doctors and helpers so much SHIT, because without them my uncle would be dead. (however without them he might not got tons of mrsa and c-dif but ANYWAY).
but also he is a bit selfish because during the time it was really horrible my mum went to see paul every weekend in hospital, he was like "OH she has to go again??" and i was like UM WE KNOW YOUR BROTHER HAD A HEART ATTACK BUT IT ISNT THE SAME YOURE NOT THE SAME.

anyway.

my mother however has kind of leant to the martyrdom aspect of all this. everything is TERRIBLE and UNPROFESSIONAL and FUCKING DISGUSTING (no joke she actually said that
just now and thats, quite.) but really it could have been SO much worse i mean shit he could have died and left a wife and two kids two TINY kids.

well really.
seeing him at xmas (my uncle) was so much better than i thought. he's skinny AS fuck sure. but he can talk and he can laugh even though he is so grey, his skin is grey.
but really guys. do not try this into something about you, for god's sake.
it isnt about how bad you feel because he is upset. it isnt about how bad you feel because youre wife's giving her brother attention. it really isnt about you carrying on the issues and affecting yourselves with it. i mean, shit. passion = yes. over-zealous-in-your-disgust-ness= no.

i could be your housewife.

2005-12-28T17:41:00.000Z

FIIIIYYUUHHH!!!!!!!!!!!
fiyuh!

what is everybodys problem. what is my problem. really. what IS my beef with fucking, EVERYTHING. why cant i just DEAL with stuff. why cant i just be ATEASE, MEN.
like, "adeez", you know. plastic soldiers and that.

i really love luke. we've been that thing for quite a bit now i think.
i have this pencil and it says "stART" on it. fucking smooth!

BANGBANGBANG MY FIST ON THE TABLE WHEN YOU CAN'T HEAR IT IT DOESNT HURT THE SAME.
i have found out something interesting: hearing stuff makes up a major part of feeling stuff. i brushed my teeth in the shower and i couldnt hear it and it felt totally absolutely different.

thaaaaaaat thing thaaaat thing that thi i i ing thaaat thing that thiiing that thi-i-i-i-ing.
i keep imagining all kids of terrible things like we're in the car: me and my mother and dad and then something happens and they both get killed or my mum gets beheaded by some sheet iron and i imagine her face as it dies but it isnt grotesque it's just exactly what you'd expect, and my dads in a coma and im at a hospital and i say "yes turn it off" and i have nowhere to stay because my friends are away and i call katy and later i call luke and my family all know because the nurses told them and i even hear my uncles voice change as she speaks to him down the phone.

and then i think about how i didnt cry or even feel worried when my mother told me she found signs of cancer or how i didnt cry when i found out about my paralysed uncle, but how i cried when i got told my grandad died. instantly cried.
but my mother hasnt got cancer, and my uncle is himself and at home in a wheelchair.
maybe something inside me knows when stuff is going to be okay.
being dead is final and you get it back from this side. thats something to shed seventy seconds of tears for becuse you really honestly mean them. it signs off that death.
its like having an orgasm on new years eve, to finish the old year with your entire body and be woken up by some kind of slice of light scanning a bed feeling slept-in but new.

maybe my constant imagining of possibilites and the future sets me up all wrong.

just fucking take me dancing and tell me its all okay and call me girl. because i like that.

TRPOICAHHNUH

2005-11-23T20:50:00.000Z

bullet point number three:

okay well this isnt exactly. but. it runs under the heading of i love my boyfriend.

i have realised two problems. ONE is actually i am a jealous person (when i never thought i was), TWO is i am never serious so that when i am serious no one takes it like that so, im not serious ever.
really it's the hardest thing to say:

"actually, that makes me quite jealous even though i trust you."

the problem with jealousy is i am not really accustomed to it so it scares me and i dont know what to do at all. ITS HORRIBLE, ISNT IT! no really it makes me feel phycially sick. im being distraced by this song its fucking AMAZING (essaywhuman by the ROOTS)

i cant write. i cant do anything any more. for fucks sake.

bullet points

2005-11-22T21:39:00.000Z

* america is weird.

* holy fucking christ almighty it's twenty to ten already.

* i'm in love with my boyfriend.

* i hate college but only the prospect of it.

* my artistic ability is A SOURCE OF PROBLEM.

later i am going to write about each of things seperately because my brain is basically like a bowl that is so full that everytime you put it down on a surface bits come out and all the inside is in totally the wrong order.

hello world, paint my face with colours and tie a ribbon in my hair, for you are watching me wake from my window and i look just too cute.

growing out of cakes.

2005-10-26T20:18:00.000+01:00

so. Utilitarianism is basically pretty much acting on the principle that pleasure must be maximised and pain must be minimised.
then the guys like in their TOGAS and BEARDS decided the duration and sort of pleasure were some different factors so you didnt get all kinds of crazy people killing things for fun and that.
and that it Utilitarianism.

one thing they established that a higher pleasure would be stuff like, art or cutting things out really carefully or tieing your shoelaces.
and lower pleasures are things like EATING and SEX. SEX and EATING.
so then i was thinking about that and today okay i ate a french fancy you know the little cube-ular cakes that are pink, brown or yellow and it made my TEETH hurt because of the pure SUGAR it is probably made out of. sugar and pink. okay and so i think i am growing out of sweet things. i'm growing out of food.
and THEN i thought well. well when i was little and probably still even now i always loved cakes and sweet things and they were/are my favourite
and this is hard to explain the link
but sometimes i think that sex and food have been closely linked in my life before sort of not in a literal way but i always felt they were.

and so really what i am thinking is if i grow out of this certain sort of food will i grow out of a certain sort of sex?

or is sex less pinned-down than that? PINned.
well because i just dont know. i think really if i am being embarrassingly honest and why not that actually all my life i have been. really sexual. and THIS is horribly private but really it is true im like SEXUALLY ALIVE from some ridiculously tiny age. probably even infact defintiely before i was ROMANTICALLY alive. anyway i really enjoy having sex and just. being generally sexual.
and i suppose i have a similar thing with food? because i just enjoy tasting things so much. i hate being full though.
i guess that is similar, right?

the thing is it is hard to feel like yourself when you talk about sex.
i think sex is probably mostly what EVERYTHING is based on and half of me feels like im dressed in black lace and corset and suspenders that you can just see when i lay down. and i feel so attractive and BURLESQUE man, and just oh just attraction. yeah, like you cant help but look at the parts of the suspenders you can see.
and the other half of me feels like this girl who does art and thinks about things and makes connections between things and i laugh like a baby and wear stupid shoes and wants to eat whateverthehell she likes for breakfast, thankyou.

today i told someone thatit is best to treat each person you like completely different from every other person ever because they ARE completely different and really i am nothing like anyone youve ever met and youre like no one ive ever met and i cant get over how incredibly part of the world that makes me feel, i'm like COMMUNITY SPIRIT and it makes me feel so FINE and NEW and so good about myself.

today i feel open even though things are going so badly wrong and im so much in love, actually.
im so much in love actually, that i feel like it is all do-able.

(which is dumb because the do-able thing is supposed to be not being in love. right?)
XXXXXXXOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOZOZOZOZXXZXZZXZXZ
oh yeah im going to america for two weeks to escape how vile autumn is.

THE MOST VALUABLE LESSON ON HERE.

2005-10-20T16:34:00.000+01:00

10 Favorites
Favorite Color: peachyorangeypinkypink. quinacridone.
Favorite Food: chocolate cake.

Favorite Song: romantic rights - dfa1979.
Favorite Movie: fightclub. probably?
Favorite Sport: tag
Favorite Season: latest spring
Favorite Day Of the Week: thursday
Favorite Ice Cream Flavour: HALF-BAKED NIGGUH.
Favorite Time of Day: about 4 or 5.

9 Currents
Current Mood: sighful
Current Taste: cheap diet coke.
Current Clothes: jeans and grey think and no socks.
Current Desktop Picture: a paperclip.
Current Toenail Color: white
Current Time: 16:41
Current Surroundings: glass webcam camera carpet.
Current Annoyances: having fuck all motivation and autumn
Current Thought: sore throat bad song.

8 Firsts
First Best Friend: vickie waddingham
First Kiss: dan
First Screen Name: (*)hilikus(*)
First Pet: fishies.
First Piercing: ears
First Crush: bobby!
First Music: bjork.
First Car: AIRBUS

7 Lasts
Last Cigarette: actual cigarette? last thursday.
Last Drink: diet coke
Last Car Ride: into sunset like thelma and louise with roxy probably.
Last Kiss: muchmuhcmuhccumncuhccucuhc too long ago
Last Movie Seen: serenity
Last Phone CALL: roxy
Last CD Played: youre a woman im a machine

6 Have You Evers
Have You Ever Dated One Of Your Best Friends: yeah.
have You Ever Broken the Law: yes
Have You Ever Been Arrested: not technically
Have You Ever Skinny Dipped: nah
Have You Ever Been on TV: yeah
Have You Ever Kissed Someone You Didn't Know: yes

5 Things You're Wearing:
jeans, pink belt, pink pants, grey thing, bra.

5 Things You've Done Today:
smoked weed, taken pictures of my BUM, bought a sandwich, caught a bus, developed a homeless guy.

5 Things You Can Hear Right Now:

tapping, whirring, cars, clock, house breathing.

5 Things You Can't Live Without:
drawing, friends, music, colours, eyes.

5 Things You Do When You're bored:

internet draw read eat tv

5 Places You've Been To Today:
somerfield college bank home bus

3 People You Can Tell Anything To
oh some people. not very many

2 Choices
- Black or White: black
- Hot or Cold: Hot

1 Wish
things were better.

i am ill and

2005-10-01T09:27:00.000+01:00

i am suddenly overcome with the feeling that i am made from rubber and in a book.

looking forward to the pink drink.

2005-09-26T22:28:00.000+01:00

imagine getting beaten to actual death. how fucking horrendous.
imagine getting beaten to death on your way home from a party.
imagine walking home from a party with your friends and having to see them getting fucking beaten up. to death.
imagine having to cast your bodytype as MORE TO LOVE. it is somehow nice and somehow horrible. like when you hear a really stereotypically for some reason pretty rich girl say another girl is so "cuuute" and it sounds utterly fucking vicious.

who cares, really? i think at the moment even hating how you look is sort of shallow. because really hardly anyone is actually ugly. kind of feel like telling myself to GET OVER myself and thank the actual lord i am not one of those people who wishes they were someone else. i mean. what? how can you become a person that wants to be an actual other person?
that's just odd.

also, i am a jealous person. but i actually try so hard to show the whole world im not jealous of it! but i was thinking and i do actually get kind of jealous but not really just wobbly but i never say anything but i dont know why because SECRETLY maybe some people appreciate the type of jealousy i get but what if they dont and everyone is like ALLOWS YOU BETH WHAT HAS THIS GIRL GOT TO DO WITH YOU YOU DONT OWN MEEEEEE.

i like when people are funny and people arent thinking about whether or not they should laugh. EDDIE IZZARD, YOU ARE FUNNY. JACK DEE, YOU ARE FUNNY. CHRIS W, YOU ARE FUNNY. PEOPLE WHO WRITE FRIENDS, YOU ARE ALSO FUNNY. like have you ever seen a comedian you really like live? its so great i honestly recommend it. because you just cant stop laughing and it isnt like over sometimes silly like it usually is when that happens and weirdly it makes it MORE JUSTIFIABLE and funnier.

no subject.

2005-09-24T23:03:00.000+01:00

cho-king on, tails of joy, and bliss.
bro-ken sails, oh we, should bail; let's kiss.

i'll em-brace, the brew-ing thunder and let, it take me un-der-er.

i believe, i-i-in, the search of the fa-awn.
the for-est creature's wild. and so, am, i.

i want to smoke a cigarette. the brand everyone's coagulated together at gigs smells like. i want to be really cold. i want to be able to draw my underrated and lovely, lovely mouth. my favourite part of my body is the corner of my jaw under my ear. no really. things like that turn me on.
i can't help thinking that if i lived very much on my own for a long time i'd get very sad. maybe that is just because i feel sort of. well i have these moods where i feel just quiet. and think-y. and vaguely sad but only because im quiet. and so i listen to joanna newsom and then poison the well and it goes rargh rarghrargh and i am all about christmas two years ago!

here are some things that share connections with that time:
1. red lace french knickers.
2. pvc stilettos.
3. cava.
4. drawing contests with little girls.

(if i was writing this in word, something would say to me "it looks like you are making a list!" and it'd be RIGHT. i wish it would just say that and just make statements. it's a far more human thing to do.)

WHEN I'M NOT BEING COOL:
i thought what you wrote in that myspace message was very touching. you didnt try to make it amazing, you were honest, and i appreciate that more than i can say, really. it is astonishing that you are YOU and at the same time really ME also. and it isn't like some hallowed, you know, outerbody experience of perfection or whatever, like "OH MY GOD, THIS IS LOVE" it just is. and you just are. youre like. what. WHAT. and i love it.
you are the outside of a sock and i am the inside so baaasically we're the same just i am a bit more wiggly than you.

right now i am mostly hoping you'll read this soon, and i'll look pretty tomorrow.

oh youre all so rude

2005-09-20T22:56:00.000+01:00

today and some of the last days really i have felt really quite bad and suddenly insecure and i think that my best friend and my boyfriend (what that is what i am calling you for now okay) don't like me very much because they both keep sounding thoroughly disinterested with me (and like they would rather just not) which makes ME disinterested with me and so. i think of things to say and then i forget them and i only remember them now. so what i meant to say to you was.

"I AM SORRY FOR TALKING CRAP AT YOU IT IS PROBABLY REALLY BORING."

also i realise that i actually do nothing at all so katy can we please take those drugs really soon please. and i keep trying to get really really really drunk but it never works. like i think because i always eat first and that is the WRONG order. basically all together i just need to go bang but i wont go bang. maybe i am just hormonal or something. that is another problem also because THAT better happen soon or i'll be a bit worried.

can you please still want to be my friend and love me and can we please take those drugs now.

xxx for some reason.

GHOSTS ARE TELEPHONING ME.

2005-09-18T15:00:00.000+01:00

ghosts are calling my house. says:
it contacted me through "BT SMS voice service"
ghosts are calling my house. says:
which is when someone texts your house phone and a robot lady reads it out to you
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and it said you have a message from this number
ghosts are calling my house. says:
(numbers)
ghosts are calling my house. says:
press one to hear it
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and when i pressed one the line went "boooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo" like i wasnt in the middle of a call
ghosts are calling my house. says:
so i hung up and it rung straight away!!!
ghosts are calling my house. says:
ANDANDAND
ghosts are calling my house. says:
it was saying the end of the message and said something about love
ghosts are calling my house. says:
but i didnt hear the whole message!
ghosts are calling my house. says:
so i pressed one at option time again and it did the same!!!
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and then every time i hung up it would ring and talk like i had been hearing it all along
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and then the lady said
ghosts are calling my house. says:
byebye
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and the line went dead!
ghosts are calling my house. says:
ghosts are telling me things about love but i dont know what
mnmnmnelella says:
my gosh! that's odd
ghosts are calling my house. says:
AND NOW
ghosts are calling my house. says:
i called 1471
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and the robot lady only said
ghosts are calling my house. says:
you have no messages
ghosts are calling my house. says:
(dead line)
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and now. i am trying to find out about the messaging on bt's website
ghosts are calling my house. says:
and LOOK
ghosts are calling my house. says:
http://www.bt.com/www.bt.com/bttext?com.bea.event.type=linkclick&oLName=link.searchresults&oLDesc=KB_205

ghosts are calling my house. says:
i can only think of three possible explanations
ghosts are calling my house. says:
1; it was luke
ghosts are calling my house. says:
2; one of my parents is having a glamourous torrid love affair
ghosts are calling my house. says:
3; a group of lonely ghosts have been watching me for a very long time and congregated around a table with no lights on where it was rainish outside and telephoned me as i cleaned my house.

i like that kanye west song man.

2005-09-16T23:07:00.000+01:00

remember when it snowed all the time?

well today was fantastic

2005-09-13T22:51:00.000+01:00

except for today i bought two lollipops and they were in my back pocket (i put them head out so they could enjoy the ride) and they fell out and they said "clakCLAK" and one was yellow and one was red and then i turned around and a lorry ran over them.

OTHER THINGS:

ONE) i hate my mother's feet.

B) i found a huge hidden charity shop and bought a dress and beads and a jacket.

TROIS) i'm in love with someone who i think is gosh really actually very good-looking.

QUATRO) i trapped a cranefly in my double glazing so i can look at it and not be scared of it.

eleventhundredandnine) i learnt to drink coffee and i actually quite like it.

P.S.
when i wake up in the night my tiredness sits all in my belly and anything i do to begin with tires me out so completely i have to catch my breath but after speaking to you under my duvet i was okay no problem at all again.

a scary time.

2005-09-04T23:00:00.000+01:00

a few days ago a cranefly got killed and put in my bin and everytime the plastic bags in the bin moved i thought it was the cranefly being undead and then i thought no and then i imagined the crackling was the ghost of the cranefly crawling out of the bin ready to terrify me to actual death.

note the sly reference to sex, even though i said i don't talk about it.

2005-08-28T16:32:00.000+01:00

Today i met a dead rabbit.
I walked, feeling my hips sway heavily, reading a cheque and thinking about money, and when i looked away it was directly into a glassy, velvet-brown eye.
I gasped. Gasps look like this: !. i dont know why i gasped.
So tucked under by the edge of the curb was the rabbit, a big fat soft sack of clean, uninjured fur. Its eye was all depths and chasms of chocolately glorious nothingness, inbetween straw-coloured lashes, like a far away shadow of my own.
First i walked on, and then i cam back to see him once, and then i came back to see him again.
For some reason i felt this huge pulling furry urge to watch over its squishy rectangle of cardoardy body. mainly to just, look. to just register the dead, perfect rabbit.
then, then really after deciding not to incase i saw it get squished and that would have made me sad, i carried on walking.
and as i did there was bright plasticish jazz on the wind as i walked under rounded scales of light and shade through woodland. It made me smile.
nowww i lie in my garden, sort of lulled and considering.
I have watched an aeroplane float around in the flat sky, along with some dandelion seeds, the kind you have to wish on, like dustly fairies.

you know when you look at the sky, and after some time your eyes begin to notice all these bajillions of particles of colour and light that make up the sky? well really what is it was ust all the hundreds and thousands of flying things that are there between our faces and the sun, like little gormless flies with huge eyes, or petals from trees from spring?
there might be petals too, from other springs. like i was just thinking about the sand which is probably in my brain hidden in my actual brain right now as i write this.
in something so big and ennnndless there should be more than just the obliteratingly obvious; planes, thoughts, life.

lately ive been thinking about writing things down.
alot of people do not write the saem things as me. i dont write about holidays, or friends, or sex.
i mainly thought about this after remembering an insanely old song and singing it. i was like:
"i remember when, i was five, and you were ten, boy"..what? i first heard this when i was about six. SIX for gossakes.
"you teased and made my cry! And you said.." How am remembering this? what?
"LITTLE GIRL, PLEASE DONT WAIT FOR ME," WHAT?
"WAIT PATIENTLY FOR LURVE SOMEDAY IT IWLL SURELY COME! OOH!"
and so i continue until i realise that the whole lyric-reciting chunk of my brain must be swelling with pride and will NOT RELENT.

so, what? why do i remember this? why do i remember this song from a very definitely MAY day in MAY, and why do i remember my PIN number by how it looked on its paper?
and why, why has an alarming percentage of my life dissolved away, most of my memories in the Recall and Association section, backing up things like No, we did not eat sandwiches, and Yes, i am alive?
how come the memories that are always floating around are a vague selection of people and faces.
maybe i thought it was comfort?
but theres bad memories, and embarrasing ones too, one especially that no one else saw and will be mine for ever, making me smile in exams.

one day, will my only memory be your face, in the dark, smiling, with blood on your chin?

today a bird nearly flew in my actual face.

2005-08-17T23:03:00.000+01:00

dont you just sometimes really dislike the fact that life will just simply not comply with the mood youre feeling.
do you ever get that.

like i was wanting everything to go as smooth as the smoothest moving thing you remember feeling, i was baking a cake and i wanted some chocolate milk to drink. and so everything was fine but the lid wouldnt undo. like for whatever reason I DONT WANT TO KNOW, tesco, it just wouldnt undo whatever i did. and then it got reall hot and the cake didnt go right or anything.

and now. now i am a bit drunk and a bit sad. i went to get the milk and it came off easier than anything.
we have some buttercreamfrosting in a tin. a TIN. and i ate some and a night of being very drunk and very wet and very sad and very uncomfortable and very, very drunk all came back to me at once.

and now i am feeling quite blank and quite lost for no real reason.
DUSTBIN MEN SAY:
MAP: i dont know where that idea came from. you have a map in your room like that?
JAR: thats from that sci-fi film with the meteors which is called full impact or final impact or full final close impact of the third kind whatever.

empty dishes

2005-08-13T14:53:00.000+01:00

the sex was silent.
we would press into each other night after sodden night, and each time her dark hair tented over squared awkward shoulders would make the rasping sound of silk over cardboard as it slid across our skin, so loud it near deafened you in the red-coloured room with red-coloured sex shining like ripe, taught berries in the last of summer's evenings, when it rains and the sky is the colour of gunpowder.

in your mind you can see a girl's face.
it is pale and pressed upwards, perhaps as if it is rising from a milky depth.
it is smoothed over, the way memory paints, and you aren't quite sure of the lines of her nose.
the imprint of the girl's face reminds you of handprints in rolling flour. dry and powder and stuck.
you see black-rimmed eyes and dark hair and red matte lips and all you recall is the rain and the silken pavement studden in chewing gum, and the sex.
her rough skin was always tepid and dry, and you smell the memory of suffocating powder. the smell of talcum reminds you of lilac decorations and tins of hairspray. using the word tin instead of can appeals to you still, even though she never noticed such nuances.
she wasnt beautiful and her lips were square and filled with crystalline shapes and patterns where they were left to dry as she slept. you never watched each other sleep, and you would sit on trains and in cafeterias fretting obsessively over whether you could be sure she ever actually closed her eyes, your mind filling rapidly with the image of a curved row of eyelashes swathed like garlands as you fuss with your teacup.
your teacup had a dark red line marching about its rim and out of focus lamps dance against the petrol raining sky.
there are a million things about her you know and she never told you, things she had forgotten and romantic reminders could not fulfil your sense of deflation at discovering a forgotten childhood.
she never interested you after that, or was beautiful to you, and yet you fucked her every night.
one thing you remember from your tenth birthday is a dinner table with blurred faces in yellow paper hats topping them, and pots of jelly. although it was noisy, you pulled your first spoonful from the jelly and in one of those accidental moments of utter silence, the vacuum of the red shining jelly combined with the upward motion of your spoon made a pop, like the sound of bad kissers, a grotesque sound under the warm sixty watt bulbs that were on because it was raining outside, and in that moment your birthday perma-smile fell from your face and landed on the table cloths, wobbling like your spoonful of pinkish wet jelly, and you suddenly felt despair at knowing the feeling of age and explicitness and obscenity.
you never told anyone.
so she reminds you perhaps of knowing sexuality. she is reminiscent too, in association, of cheap watercolour paints and the taste of them, as you were too scared to leave your bedroom to get a glass of water, so you licked the insipid blocks of colour that taste the precise same way it smells that smell the precise same way it feels.
you had sex together every night for awhile. a long while.
the last time, you think, it was raining outside and the lights were on. well, a lamp was on, a sixty watt bulb high-lighting the squareness of her hips and her black lace underwear and making her eyes smooth balls of shadow, the inside of her mouth waiting wetly and pinkly beneath a surfeit of powderly lips, for nothing in particular.
it wasn't sex like that, though. it wasnt pink, or designed to make you feel too hot, it was honest. the sadness of the honesty is what made you come back, you think. her honest stare and my honest hands, you explained once to a friend. the thought of your hands on her is horrifying and you wonder how you can ever do the same again, and so you didn't.
painfully honest, she sat as if a block of powder with dark hair in your bed, holding your gaze as you had sex.
images of your childhood and association flick through your mind as it's nerve endings are effected, like the moments when you are falling asleep and everything is important.
or a good idea.
and so it ended, and you didnt notice until some weeks after. you didnt notice. your powder mannequin of frowning plastic had burnt in a haze of listerine and paper towels and it hits you.
it hits you so hard you stop in the street as people run past in the rain and the grey and your camel overcoat gapes open in the wind and torrential sprays coming from everywhere, and you can't move.
you stood there for hours and hours letting colours of evening and night sink into you with the rain. you start to cry and you realise you don't need anything.

you found the cafeteria with the blood-red rimmed cups.
you found the pharmacy with the talcum powder tins.
you found the lie when she was seven she told to all her friends.
you found the photograph you tacked to your wall.
you found the map with arrows to your house, and hers, and the italian restaurant.
you found the image of her face in powder, falling away in your mind and at last, at long fucking last, you find peace.

one hour and one minute later, you recieve a phonecall.
you hang up instanty, tear down every scrap of paper you see, push your belongings to the floor including a jar of screws and keys and the one girl you ever loved was a collection of everything you hated and it only goes to show
you think
with a smile and your chest begins to hurt and your mouth twists in a smile like two handle bars
that you still love every girl and every boy you ever had sex with because they make you realise how much you treasured, collected memories of, cherished, loved
sex with her.

IN REPLY, SLY

2005-08-08T22:03:00.000+01:00

hey baby THAT IS ME.

you are silly.

you must know the answer to all of that.
so you never said "OH YEAH I FEEL LIKE THIS"
but

come on
you are adorable and correct.

well what ever happened to despair.

2005-08-07T22:29:00.000+01:00

so i have been on holiday.
there have been way over TWOHUNDREDPOSTS from the friends on my livejournal while ive been away. in one week. i hope they GET A LIFE one day.
i wont really say anything about my holiday because it doesnt interest me to regurgitate this, but it was nice. i felt the same when i came back from paris.

luke i feel really bad for you that if you stay in your room you never know the time because i think your computer clock is wrong. and your phone clock assuredly is.

ive been yearning to tie this down.
so what i think i have.
where is the rain and the cold blue.
where is me crying on the carpet in my underwear.
where is me gleaning whiskey from the cupboard and drinking with the computer screen.
where is my flirtacious self. where has she been since that boy with dark hair and dark eyes and dark everything that no one knows about.
NO ONE EVEN KNOWS AND I AM LIKE DID I GROW TIRED OF THIS DID IT TIRE ME DID I DO SOMETHING WRONG DID I HURT SOMEONE and ive put on weight and am finding it so hard to forgive myself and start again and i feel sad but im ignoring it with all i can.

i wonder what my heart looks like.

once i fell in love with a girl for a few seconds because i touched her back and it wa the softest thing i've ever felt on a human being by a long, long way.
it reminds me of the time i fell in love with a boy for some time because he spoke to me and looked at me and i winked at him, and he talked to his friends about me and blew me a kiss that i blew back and the few hours we were in the same colossal room together were wonderful, it was a perfect relationship.
once when i was maybe about eight or a bit older i fell in love with a woman in a shoe shop to see what it was like. she had hair the same colour as her lipstick.
the other day we remembered the guy (with the misfits tattoo) and it is strange i liked him so much. it is strange to think back on things. i feel like i sit high above everything in a silver crown watching rail thin streaks of blue rain and wind lacing miles of moorland before me and memories wage like samurai battles to tremulous violins.
i am the queen of everything.

it is probably some neurosis

2005-07-24T23:19:00.000+01:00

(even though it was your granddad)

i love when people call me "girl"

a secret and with you in mind.

2005-07-21T21:26:00.000+01:00

im sorry but
HAVE YOU EVER NOTICED HOW SOMETIMES EVERYTHING FEELS SO MUCH LIKE good or like those wooden pegs you slot into wooden-peg shaped holes and they go "clop" and the bottom.
like when it said "clop" i imagined the wood saying that in a little round speech bubble and it really appealed to me.

the point is. life: i know i give you a lot of shit but really you have nothing to do with me. youre great and everything mon frere, mon cherie, but actually it is pretty much me
at sunset
with rolled up sleeves
and these HUGE eyes and their eyelashes which go outwards in curls
living.

and i guess that that is pretty inpirational so me.
i keep having vast images where it is like looking out of a window high up looking at that sort of beauty everyone appreciates and i feel so saved at these moments that my face just breaks into a smile and i want to sit there in quiet and just focus on such a feeling. the feeling is like open and clear and i feel like all of me is breaking open and everything is colours and at these times i feel so at peace. so at peace.
and i realise that nothing is really bad.
nothing really is anything and i say to this: it is only because i was too stubborn to learn i am not calling this NIRVANA or ENLIGHTENMENT or ZEN. look at my ZEN guys. but actually i do it by myself.
and when i do it by myself in these glorious moments i want to share everything with some people because i feel like i am watching everything.
and everything fits. like the wooden blocks oh yeah.

the last time i felt like this. and felt so free and observing and i suppose gifted was blackhorse road station on a wednesday at some time after ten
and even though it was cold and grey,
i
it
everything

felt so good to me and so much mine, and i realised that LIFE i do not NEED you for this.
guys look at my ZEN.
i do not need someone else's definition of this. make a list and don't complete it. make a list and do.
because really everything is yours and everything is waiting and everything is ready to fit
and sometimes everything really is so so fucking dreadful and awful and abominable that you can barely understand why you live.

and so today i felt like this. but was unaffected. i sat and watched a film letting the people's voices (like ed norton HELLO i will marry you okay only if luke marries brad pitt except brad pitt's hottest part is the curve of his back i know this film by frames theres this bit in a door way so. dont even.) but his voice reminds me of brown sugar and i let it just soak into me while i sat there.
and i went to tescos and bought chocolate milk and let it wash down me thickly and grotesquely while i sat there.
i talked to people and understood them. i feel so naked sometimes.
i let the feeling of absolute nothing soak into me. while my list sat being not read. and things sat being undone.
and i knew. will you just check out my ZEN guys. i knew and i knew and i know. but i still just sat there.
and you know that was some terrifying incredibly heart-breaking version of clarity. except it didnt break my heart. i just sat there.
and i felt like this :
+

because really. really really. i just know.

and sure there is that self image thing. i guess i think my problem with that is more than everyone's token problem beause i mean fuck nothing would be fun if you were perfect.
but just. the other day i walked down the road and across from me were these three kids about ten. and they walked together these two girls and a boy and all showed each other their stomachs.
and it seemed to me. me in my french hat. that this was so wonderful
they all did not care. and were not showing off. and just were genuinely interested.
that i was like
"i want to be like that" and just learn some how to feel good in this.
there are things (about this girl RIGHT HERE RIGHT NOW that actually looks like she does and is really sitting right here right now or she is in bed or in her house or maybe walking or possibly drawing with those hands you might have felt and she quietly wonders while you look at her what she's like to you and to everyone who sees this person not frozen in pixels or a mirror) that will change and are going to change. but i think i have to run out of this soon otherwise it will eat me up like my own wet pink mouth and that will be the end of that.

really. i mean really.
sometimes when i feel so orange-coloured and open cracked open like a softer egg with my hair moving around me and i want to share everything and really
love
everything youve got.

so life; thankyou.
and fuck you a million times. because sometimes i know there is something
which is so beautiful
i am lost for words and i am in love with the empty plain of my mouth and i look and watch and think on this beauty
and am filled with such an unnamable feeling.

and i feel divine.

its just that you arent.

2005-07-20T23:08:00.000+01:00

why are there always grains of un-disolved hot chocolate flavour grit at the bottom of hot chocolate.
that kind of thing makes me want to not go to sleep.

THIS BIG.

2005-07-19T20:59:00.000+01:00

today i watched five or six ducks all leaning into a rotating water sprinkler swaying slightly as they watched the water come back around.

i was going to say "i would like a mint humbug" but then i realised i have some in my house and actually fulfilment of small pleasures is not what interests me in the way i would write it to you. and also i sort of only wanted to write about ducks but i couldnt.

(i realised recently that went a person says "you" and maybe you know it is not you, the thing you are reading suddenly becomes the most personal thing in the world and it is almost as if you can't read it)

PLEASE NOTE I AM GETTING IN THE SHOWER SO IF I AM NOT THERE PLEASE BE PATIENT OH CHRIST LOOKS AT THE CLOCK WHERE ARE THE DAYS GOING.
PLEASE BEAR THIS IN MIND.

the last word i heard was bucket and i really want to get off here before i hear anything else you know sometimes when you set yourself those ultimatums one day ill show you its in tankgirl too okay okay

it was just said with such appetising conviction my mouth was swollen with its vitriolic juices and my lips feel like leather sofas.

allows me, moreover

2005-07-14T21:46:00.000+01:00

ALLOWS THIS
I DON'T KNOW WHAT TO DO ANYMORE

i dont know how to look after things.
SOMEONE'S TAKEN MY LEGS AND I AM ALL STOMACH.
MY MODEM AND MY MEMORY STICK ARE FLASHING IN SYNCHOPATION TO TEARDROP BY MASSIVE ATTACK. WHAT AM I TO DO WITH YOU. FUCK. expletives. you said fuck when i left. i said expletive.

(salmon salmon sahmun pink)
please come home.

DEAR You,
i hope you dont read this anymore. it must be hurtful to watch second person slowly turn in to someone who is not yourself.

fow-fow

2005-07-12T19:44:00.000+01:00

here are some things which are alarmingly overpriced:
batteries
film for cameras
hairdye
fucking innocent fucking smoothies in those tiny fucking little bottles form the new fucking bakery in tetbury.

i'd marry tom waits' voice but really i wouldnt because it wouldnt come to that, it'd take me in its arms and be like "awwuh, hey girl" (i love when people call me girl) and whisk me away for some torrid affair in jazz clubs full of glowing blue smoke and empty yellow glasses at three in the morning.
i hate when people say three-ay-emm instead of three-in-the-morning or three-oh-clock sometimes.

i feel strange now. well not strange (strange reminds me of for some reason today getting out of swimming pools) i just feel kind of not sure how you feel. and you. and you! okay so im not sure how a bunch of people feel. earlier i went to sleep and felt really nyam when i got up and then this feeling kept happening but now for some reason i feel kind of used up, and like, old and everything i am thinking is oolld and my head is sort of, what, not that nice to you guys maybe. well you especially.
tell me i am wrong.

the other people never look here so allows them.
oh, ho, ho.
im making you something too. but it isnt the secret.

look haha i made it like a letter to you.
hahahaha

stop making that big FACE

2005-07-08T15:11:00.000+01:00

and I get out of the shower and my skin is circles of yellow joined with pearly scars of water. Someone has scrawled me with invisible wax like i am their arm in an exam and then doused me in water.
I clean my ears with cotton buds as the packaging speaks to me in first person.
"I am hypoallegenic," they say.
"I am gentle to baby and you."
I have to flip the strings of my hair over and I clean my ears and try to think which shop it is that has "flippy" skirts as I read
WARNING: DO NOT INSERT COTTON BUD INTO EAR CANAL.
I am very quiet and I look at the lilac label. Sometimes it is nice to focus on a shut mouth and to smile silently at your whole life and how quiet it is and how you look to the bathroom cabinet or the door or the lightswitch or other people's bathrooms which you have been in recently.
Other people's bathrooms always seem strange to you and you wonder where things are in them as you gaze into your own eyes trying to imagine what it is like to be a mirror and letting the fact that these are your beautiful bluegrey eyes and not someone else's in someone else's bathroom. And no, you can't imagine what it is like to be this mirror. This mirror in another person's bathroom.

The one thing that is better than writing on a banana with a biro is writing on your monitor with anything. Especially this mousepen from my tablet. Better than those Honda adverts. You feel anything you write is fucking legendary because it doesn't exist.
I am currently thinking about what it must be like to have a bra with three rows of hook-and-eyes, what I'm really like at kissing and about how people see deleted entries maybe for a second before they are deleted, and maybe these become our thoughts and our dreams.

it has taken me twenty six minutes and seventeen seconds to complete this entry.
good day to YOU.

hellgoodbye stole our sound.

2005-07-05T13:01:00.000+01:00

every drawing that i drew was nev-er ev-er ascuteasyou.
i have this one shape in my head that is a neckline of a shirt i have. like a soft wineglass. man, that shirt feels like the feeling i get when i shave my legs and get into be and it is, frictionless. dull soapy smooth.
it is raining again. what happened to the supposed summer. jesus, a month ago it was going to be the best ever. two months ago.
i'm looking for a job. i want to be ROOM SERVICE. ROOOOM SERVISSSSS. no i actually really want to work in this one hotel just they are posh and im scared and i already called them and they said to come in this afternoon but instead i want to see if i can score a majorette jacket with my dad's money so i want to go in thursday so ill have to call them up again in a minute.

not to sound ridiculous. but there is something i want really lots and it is so me. thats the ridiculous part.
okay.
it's a fucking bee outfit. it is incredible. YES A BEE OUTFIT okay gosh.
its like a stripey dress with a tutu at the bottom. it has 19 days left, and maybe if i get my job i will buy it and oh MAN ill be happy. its SO FUCKING NANG.
it iwll be funny. while i am making beds or carrying trays. how i imagine coins and circles of colour falling to fill up a shape of me. just so i can buy a bee outfit.
it will be my secret
i will not tell anyone
only i will know why i am working there.

also. i am going to try and make some rubbish urban art to go on a tshirt and if people go HEY I LIKE YOUR RUBBISH DRUGGY URBAN SHIT i might get paid £200 or something.
i want to drink orange squash from a thick red plastic cup like i used to.

this morning my thighs were the colour of setting tallow and i remembered red plastic, strawberry girls, boyfriends.
and i smiled a folded smile
at how things were.

SHARK ATTACK

2005-06-30T18:32:00.000+01:00

(you can click the title!)

my hands smell of cigarettes and fake tan.
we walked, i walked, with a bottle of chocolate milk and red brand. a huge coat. i have only slept ten hours over the past, 2 or 3 nights. so any time you sit me still for longer than, oh, ten minutes, i am falling asleep on the sofa and in the car and in maths exams and on roxanne. i wake up and my eyes are stuck together it feels like my eyelashes are made from lead or something heavier or something.
VAGABOND.
MAN so i had my prom last night and it went really fast and a lot of people huffed all my precious helium helium helium gas or spiking their punch. it was hot. the dj's son put a hand on my shoulder to help me. tommy wore a hat and why must he always look so good. one of my favourite smells in the whole wide world is smoke from smoke machines.
my knee is breaking and every muscle in my leg is wrong and aching and makingmy leg feel like a bottle.
there is a frog sitting next to me and he is about. 7 millimetres long.

i am really very very utterly confused today.
WANT TO LISTEN TO BIFFY AND ACONITE THRILL WANT THE SUN TO SHINE REDLY IN THE EVENING MAKING THE ORANGE IN MY HAIR SHINE THROUGH AND TEETER IN DASHES LIKE HYPHENS ON A TYPEWRITER WANT TO NOT FEEL SICK WANT IT TO NOT SMELL OF SOUP WANT TO FEEL RESTED WANT TO SEE YOUR SQUARE SMILE WANT TO BE SICK want to slam dunkit like shaquille OH neale wicked wreckin baby i ROCK THAT TEST TOOB BABEY TAKE IT COS I GOT

POSTCRIPT

2005-06-28T09:42:00.000+01:00

p.s. i never meant oh my god as in masturbation
i meant oh my god as in despair.

boom. shaka. lacka.

2005-06-28T09:27:00.000+01:00

i am currently interested in pairings.

here are some:
novacaine and ballet shoes.
germolene and fabs.

sunburn and the smell of new film. outside is a tree which is half red and half green and it shines and shines and shines and shines. the sky is lilac.

man. sometimes. sometimes it is okay. sometimes i love the salty smell of skin like wet sand against my bedsheets. sometimes playing tambourine is SO FUCKING GOOD IT IS LIKE THE ONLY THING IN YOUR MIND AND IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD.
WHAT ARE THE OPPOSITES OF SO MANY WORDS AND WHY CAN I NO LONGER FIND THE RIGHT ONES. SOMETIMES ITS SO FUCKING GOOD REMEMBERING THE PAST. SOMETIMES ITS SO SO SO GOOD NO TO THINK. SOMETIMES IT IS SO NICE TO LEAVE YOUR BED IN YOUR PANTS AND TAKE FOREVER TO TAKE THEM OFF AND START AGAIN AND GET DRESSED WHEN YOUR HAIR IS ALL CWURLY. I MEAN CWURLY YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. SOMETIMES ITS SO
FUCKING
NICE
TO THINK OF BLUE SKIES AND REMEMBER YOU ARE HAPPY. AND THAT MAYBE
JUST MAYBE
THE TIMES WHEN YOU ARENT
ARE JUST LIKE: EGG WHITES, CRUSTS, ICE CREAM CONES, OUTSIDES OF PENGUIN BISCUITS.

SOMETIMES. IT JUST IS SO FUCKING NICE. sometimes to take pleasure in the BOOM of life is fucking great.

OH FAHK BLAD

2005-06-24T16:49:00.000+01:00

LOST: ONE POLICE HAT, BLUE. ONE PAIR OF AVIATOR SUNGLASSES, BROWN. ONE GUN, PLASTIC. BITS OF LEG, BLEEDY.

ALSO:

people love me.

a secret.

2005-06-20T21:29:00.000+01:00

when i am sad, sometimes i think of manatees.

they are so melancholic. their faces look they are permanently saying this word, lamenting it to the water.
i think of them as boxes or shoes cast in blubbery bandages of falling clay.
sometimes when i am sad, i long to touch them. to push my fingertips into their skin so it left five soft indents either side of its body, like a cold plasticine - not cold - tepid. like they are being left in the sun, that comfortable kind of sad you keep just inside your cuff incase things really hurt. warm coca-cola without the fizz.
they'd feel like a thousand tiny lines of running fabric under water or the dessicated infinitely soft algae in your fishtank.

you're a manatee.

this is you.

you make me sad
but you make me hurt less.

guess your number and i'll guess mine.

true story

2005-06-18T21:50:00.000+01:00

butters.
is the best slang word i've heard so far.

god, youre brother is annoying.

2005-06-17T17:28:00.000+01:00

so i think the whole, future thing, is okay.
i walked down a street with spent blossom trees, re-fantasizing a phone conversation for at least the second time.

do you see the oak tree to your left? -- and here there is a pause between 'your' and 'left'. during this pause i have pinched my forefinger and thumb on each hand and made a movement as i process which side of you the tree is on and which hand i write with.

i'm so shit with directions i tell you and you know because you laugh during the pause. here is another thing that happens during the pause.

during the pause you also might notice where i am leading you, seeing it precisely infront of you, seeing me hiding behind the bamboo and lying on the grass. you might not notice.
keep going, i say with tease in my voice like sweet butter and i hear you walk. your breaths come out every time you plant your black shoes which i know you'll be wearing on the pavement. your breaths have the tone of someone who is pretending to be annoyed or bemused but youre smiling.
in the pause some sparrows - god don't sparrows have the most thoughtless ugly song, its like CARCARARACARAR and it sounds exactly like the colour of their bellies - are flying into a hole in a roof on a house under the sun. the sun is afternoon sun, where is is deeply hot before everyone starts to barbeque.
the sun is the nearly five o clock sun.

you notice the end of the street sign is broken off and you notice where the pavement is buckled from the roots of ornamental cherry trees. it reminds you of the buckled pavement where you live which is littered with the hundred count of spent cherries from a tree over the wall, and how you avoided standing on them that morning because of the macarbe image of them splitting in slow motion with juice and obscene ripeness underneath your shoes.

okay, you say. all you say is okay and you laugh. i can see the laughs coming from you in square bubbles like your square eyes and your square jaw and your square mouth. sometimes you say fuck off and god.
it is nice because everyone knows we are pretending and everyone knows what it reminds you of and only i know it reminds me of a slice cut into a thick orange skin when we kissed.

excerpts from academia [sic]

2005-06-14T23:43:00.000+01:00

the sky was a beach of spiders that twinkle blind.
i wore a cotton dress
as you can see, i've you've been on my mind alot lately. you cant run as fast as me oh no, media, mmmedia, how many faces? me in a cotton dress with a ribbon to my knee. you cant bend in half like i can; you cant run as fast as me.
the narcissist lies in a bed of milk, betwixt ruby slippers and felt animals that play and run and play, play, play.
i'm the burning best.
find the river (heart). francois. romeo and juillet. timetables? loser.
is it that i have changed? in the midsts of folding, origami, parentheses, scraped knees, lined paper, spring.
a phone flex is strangling bunnies. bunniesbunnies. glue spreaders smell of amyl nitrate and a fire alarm.
oh, oh gosh. fairground rides, alchohol. marshamallows.
i rubbed my skin and it peeled off in the shape of teeth-marks.
i saw the lines and then the margines, as i kept rubbing
and then i became paper.
and the world blew away.
messiahs baby, messiahs.mangos, panic buttons. missing letters and crossing-dots.
I AM ROB AND YOURE NOT.
au londres. doctor, doctor! penultimacy and basic instructions will be the death of videos and memories, my god.
my god.
kiss me guapo, beneath the tree of the periodic table. kiss me.
my god.
my god.
my god.

a collection of items in a treasure box.

2005-06-13T20:50:00.000+01:00

recline my neck back, a vertebrae at a time, unfurling like a spiral of a fern. i do this so my head dips into a square pool of warm light. i feel it envelope my face and eyes, everything turns glucose yellow inside a dough felt parcel. i shut my eyes, enjoying the sunlight, watching a red blanket spread before me, the reds and oranges mapping through dancing circles, blue spiders weaving coursing threads.
i think about things. i think about the colour green. about picnic blankets, you know; seersucker. i think about the shadows and ebbs of light from a glass of water on a windowsill. i think about how my hair matched my shirt, and my shirt matched my pants, and they matched nothing except my shirt which matched my hair. things move in squares and waltzing shimmery kaleidoscopes.

i own a dried foxglove flower and a black feather. i know they are in my house. i own them because they both belong in a moment of perfection. crying, i stepped from my door to look up, to see the flower drop from the plant and a falling feather reach the floor at the exact same moment, the exact precise same time. and in that moment, that one tiny moment, i swear perfection was infinite.

the moment spiralled on, long after i had picked both things up, long after even now. the one stuttering rope of perfection carries on. it is on its own line. no one will ever experience it again, but it keeps going. and i saw it. it was me.

never think about me part d.

2005-06-12T16:55:00.000+01:00

here are some things i know nothing about whatsoever:

the price of a prostitute.

chinese verb structure.

how compact discs work.

the production process of tinned mandarin segments.

where my blue tshirt has gone.

how much i am suddenly smiling.

if anyone could tell me anything about these subjects, or think about them a little, i'd be so appreaciative. thankyou for listening.

never think about me part c.

2005-06-10T19:08:00.000+01:00

it is pretty much incredible what people can do.
who the fuck discovered singing?
And then people went and made it completely incredible by adding every other thing they thought of, and made you feel stuff with singing. Which, is just talking with a tune. which is just changing the shape and distance of these litle invisible waves which come echoing and leaking from between our lips. Their lips. Whatever. but; man.

also. pictures. has anybody (in the whole history of anything) ever walked away from a piece of art feeling nothing? feeling the same as asleep. it is difficult to imagine nothing because my brain is wired such that everything links to something else. which for the most part is annoying because i can't talk straight about anything. its like, "beth listen to this song" and i am all:

this song sounds like this looks.
this song sounds like the smell of these.
this song sounds like that feeling you get when you look at those.

so sometimes that frustrates me. when i am talking to other people about things, they usually dont have the same parts of brain as me. i think ive only met two-and-a-half people who do.
so like even thinking of blank whiteness would have connotations of other things for me.
i wonder why that is?
i think probably brains are covered in bits of copper and bronze-coloured wire (and the brain is blue), and someone dropped mine in the bath.
and it went
PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING psh FING psh FING
as the thoughts pulsed and coursed along the wires like fish.

the moral of today's story is i believe in the sanctity of life but minus the god part. i believe in spirituality minus the leg-crossing. i believe in divine inspiration minus all of the rules and specificaions.
i cant even start to get my broken brain to think about why i connect my eyes with my mouth and my mouth with my brain and my brain with my neck and my neck with my body and my body with my heart and my heart just sits there pathetically beating out boy's names and warnings.

never think about me part b

2005-06-05T17:52:00.000+01:00

man sometimes sad songs really fuck me over.
sometimes when youre sad they massage your sadness and they make you feel sort of okay again. sometimes when youre sad they make you feel 100000000000 times worse. but then you still think "hey i am sad i am going to listen to this sad song with pianos which is slow and builds up to a crescendo by which time i am probably crying". why the hell do we do that anyway?
is it because it makes you feel okay to be sad?
is it maybe because you feel alone otherwise. but really who wants to cry infront of a bunch of people. i only cry in bed because i dont want people asking what is wrong with me. and sometimes people say to this "oh, but i want to make you feel better! i dont know anyone who does that,"
and i'm all
i bet every single person in the world who you've never seen cry does that.
some people dont even cry. i know a girl who doesnt cry, she doesnt think about stuff that makes her cry. she thinks about big stuff and has secretly amazing poetry skills i remember finding, and she only has dreams about the end of the world and people killing each other.
there was this one song i listened to constantly at a time when i was really depressed the whole time.
i would just lie on the floor and try to cry louder than the music.
or sit on the floor or whatever.
some people cant cry. some people think it is completley strange to feel things from music, even "OH MAN this makes me want to dance"
this is why it fucks me over.
why do people want to go around listening to things which blend in to their moods until you cannot tell which is sadder, you or the song, and every part of the music the piano and his voice and the gaps fill you with so much despair
you cant even cry.

never think about me.

2005-06-05T17:00:00.000+01:00

when anthropologists dig up our bones in the future, no-one will know what the hell happened.
really teeth are just portions of bone which shoot up through your skin to chew food. and then there is that whole "english teeth thing". and teeth are pretty horrible.
but what about american teeth, man?
and they are frighteningly white and polished and tipped and laquered and stuff. those poor anthropologists won't know why the fuck they did that, and the bright-white unrealness of their teeth will shine in gloss contrast to the cream coloured skulls, and everyone will guess at what this was for. was it a ritual? they will ask school kids. was it body decoration, or did it serve a real purpose? they will ask in the museums.

what the fuck else.

ohman

2005-06-02T18:12:00.000+01:00

I LOVE YOU MORE THAN GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH

hello beautiful, shut the fuck up.

2005-05-30T16:19:00.000+01:00

She sat pulling up sheets of paper printed with
Rodeo Drive
Avalanche
Spongecake
Milk White
Jade Mist and Summer Plum.
The little squares, like bricks or smooth tiles feel like eggshell or that matte sort of rubber you find in cars. All of this just to paint your house with cool dripping and the smell of turpentine which strips your nasal cavaties and your sinuses.
A fire alarm uses alpha radiation to sense fire. Heat disrupts the electrons and it stops you and your sleeping kids from burning alive, as you toss your duvet off in your sleep. Alpha radiation is one of thoe most ionising substances on Earth. This basically means an alpha particle will not travel through your paper, but you lick the inside of your FireEx Pro and you die.
No, I say, it won't be too dark. It's a big room.
"Yes, yes it will be, it's just much too grey for the carpet,"
The thing with alpha radiation is once it enters your body, it changes the structure of every cell's nucleus.
The cell then dies.
This decay happens in chains until most of your tissue is mush or you vomit everytime you move because the acid in your stomach finds somehwere else to burn.
"We could have Apple Tree? I suppose that matches the gloss we have."
Everytime she mentions another shade of green, I'm thinking of stomach acid, burning flesh, visceral darkness and mucus.
"Soft Willow?"
The cell then dies.
"Greengables?"
The searing as your peptic ulcer explodes on to intestines.
"No, let's stick with Apple Blossom."
Pink bubbling tissue as saliva and burning make their way up your throat. I shake my head and get up from the chair.

Whatever, I say. Whatever.

I am finding it totally hard to sleep.
I have a special problem with alcohol. Not alcoholism, I mean.
Firstly, everytime I drink i get drunk. The special part is my body clings on to alcohol like a sponge and I remain feeling disconnected and slow for days, like my head is filled with milk.
It feels like you're being microwaved. You can't tell if you're still drunk or if everyone else is. Everyone else is unreasonable. Everyone else comes too close to yuor face. Everyone else gets their words mixed.
"The table is under the box," or "No I started I just needed to finish,".
Everyone else is mind-numbingly mornonic.
Every night I wake up with a thrill of fear from a dream that a girl's tape recorder is a fuel injector, we have killed people on the Underground, a huge storm blew a town away. I wake up and I need a drink.
When I open my eyes it feels like someone has stuck a sheet of cellophane bwetween my eyelids and the birds are singing.
Apparently dawn is now at 4.
I check back my curtains and the sky is a machine blue, a horrible blue. The trees are cast in black and lurch in the street while spider webs luridly twist across my window in oil rainbows; pink, orange, blue-purple, green, yellow, green.
I think this would be a wonderful colour for the room.
A cell dies.
If you lick a fire alarm, you're dead in minutes.
I realise I am sweating and strings of my hair on on my cheeks, my cheeks feel like that industrial matte rubber you find in cars, hot from the sun. Why is it so god damn hot? I open the window but a chorus of tarry birds call at me so i shut it again, shut the double glazing.
Why is it so god damn hot?
I hear a faint licking like moving a glass over brown paper. A crackling sound, acrid smoke.
I don't have a fire alarm in my house. And my fucking house is on fire.

lost symphonic papers

2005-05-22T11:28:00.000+01:00

my back hurts across my ribs today. it feels like they need to be broken open, like the chocolate of an easter egg. they should crack when i breathe out.
i hate the burning smell of buses sometimes.
i have ginger coming through the dark of my hair, cocoa powder orange.
willow wax leaves weep and writhe into rivers green, green, chartreuse.

is you is or aint you aint. gingerbread. pink smarties, dusty floors, broken glass, scars and then bruises. showerheads. cold water smell, peppers, salsa.
watch the leaves teeter in the evening and the cutlery draw in the sky shakes, the handle is pulled. the smell of cars interrupts the sinew roads like a black sick tongue and i match, we're painted the same. smell nothing on the skin of people, birds leaving wire, walk away from coloured festidious awenings, walk, walk away from ambulating oil suspended in silken puddles. walk. walk faster, walk in black and white with long hair, follow people on the streets, taste money from your city-blackened fingers, squeeze the rain from a tired shoelace, the bench is made from tarmac. hear the people and the cars yawn and dance in your ears, your tired ears, walk, walk, walk on and away, walk past trees, new leaves stained with the blood and mucus of autumn passed, wet grass emblazon your shoes, imagine the people's bones and joints as spinning paper plates, first soaked, drying and freezing, fissile and shattering, keep spinning keep spinning, black chartered wetness, ghosts loom over the percentages, cobbles, wolves and suits, walk, walk faster away from those instructing the songs playing forever and echoing from highrise buildings, from the straw and blue poppies, swirling under an enamoured ethereal sky that belongs in a photograph from above a gate when i was six. remember the colours of handkerchiefs, recall the rows of cigars in a shop window, the eyebrows of a shopclerk, walk, walk, walk away from teastains on reams of paper and grey buttons which line your brain amongst green nerves, crackling with raw and spitting in the haze of the rain, walk, walk, walk, and walk.

seriously what the fuck some people are making out behind me i dont even know why i was invited here

2005-05-07T23:10:00.000+01:00

ropes of my hair unfold in the light of a single dim bulb.
god, god, god almighty.

i always have this thing when songs or smells remind me so strongly of a certain time of my life i find it hard to listen/smell that thing ever again. it makes me feel uneasy. like weezer, most of wezer's music reminds me so much of last summer i have to pluck up courage to listen to it.
everthing is tryuing to change but my memory wont let it and it sucks.

cardiovascular exercises

2005-04-28T09:41:00.000+01:00

theres a piece of blue glitter stuck in my keyboard.

can you feel the warmth of my sincerity.

2005-04-27T21:18:00.000+01:00

im trying so hard to ignore it.

but everything sucks.

(you know thats melodramatic.
but i think it's true.

im still ignoring it. but i dont want any of what im getting. and im not altogether sure i want what i will/would/am going to get. half of the stuff that happens i dont care about, and im jealous of people who care about things or have things they want.)

doctor, doctor.
i just cast my hand and now its the softest thing you ever felt in your whole entire life, isnt it?

list so far:
1. beck.
2. egon schiele.
3. derren brown.
4. shroeder.
5. mystery name 1.
6. mystery name 2.
7. dave.
8. there was someone else before i added dave but i dont remember

turn up the immune system in the monitor

2005-04-22T17:41:00.000+01:00

HEY..UH

WEOW.
TWO STONE ARIZONA.

thursday and then also friday:
new found love for my mobile phone. picnic benches and a kid with a guitar. softball with the boys. bright colours. funnel neck coats, blood brothers, going crazy, braces. booooooooob scotch. bad food. bad live music. greyish bluish darklashed. holy goddamn hell!

christ alive. what am i going to do? hahaha. like im telling YOU.

LIGHTSABRE COCKSUCKING BLUES

2005-04-18T18:24:00.000+01:00

basically you might as well just keep the one who's second best because EVERYONE ELSE LIKES THEIR OWN second best
hahahaha

i drew two fantastic pieces of whatever today and i like them both.
SO IN YOUR FACE.
i took some pictures of my self with face paint but it looked stupid so i took some moody obscure ones of my face which makes a change...

SKASKASKASKASKA

god, i am a confused child.
my bed is covered in a board and pencils and ink and rubbings out and whatever.
you can still go there though.

how to be confused in one easy step.

2005-04-10T16:25:00.001+01:00

i have a fixation with the following things:
red, dinosaurs, sparkles.

end of list.

i've been learning my french oral, in a less than lackadaiscal way. apathetic. emasculated!
i suppose i've got english to do. have clarify brain first. then i can do art.
people keep feeding me songs to make me sleep.
i wish, for once, i was better at drawing.
wish i was better.
wish i was better at not spending money.

i did this to roxay:

it's awesome isnt it?

i might make a tshirt now. i'm enjoying listening to songs i haven't heard in a long time, what with all the new. it snowed the other day. i wonder if my brain is sparkly
theres probably glitter inside my body somewhere. in my blood or lungs or something.
the sun is burning my face

byebye x

clouds and lovers

2005-04-06T23:17:00.000+01:00

holy crap.

fight club is the best film i've ever seen in my whole entire life.

im just here to hold your hand when you die

2005-04-04T21:22:00.000+01:00

i've been listening to some pretty gorgeous music, courtesy of luke.
i've been listening while stuff falls apart, courtesy of myself.

i am beginning to despise ambiguity.
i want to take this music up to my room. i'm feeling so very ill, and nothing's been the same since i stood on a flat piece of grey rock and stared and stared and stared into the sea, the horizon for a very long time. i watched my dad stalk along the beach, touching cliffs. the cliffs were made from mud. we wondered what it would be like to die beneath them, if they fell.

i'm really ill.

"everbody's gotta learn sometimes" - i'm listening to the song that you think jim carey's character in 'e.s.o.t.s.m' throws out of the window into the rain but you dont learn until the end it is clemetine's tape. the song is really sad, it's a cover by beck.
i watched 'hitch' and it made me feel differently.

sigh. let's deal with you now, sweetie.