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Note of explanation: for some time I followed much of AshenRose's diary from the start, but I didn't finish it, perhaps I'd worked myself out of my own troubles then, that I could no longer burden new ones... but as her diary is closing down now and Skip reminded me of the value of keeping notes, I went back and rescued them, and these are most of the ones which sort of say something, whether abstract poetry, a reflection on April's work or thoughts, or a couple of notes that detail my own struggles to find reason in certain things, some of them I can't recall what thoughts were April's in her entry or merely my thoughts that sprung from it, perhaps the ashy remnants of something burnt do become mingled and confused, like lost fragments that no longer recall where their places were on the sheet of paper...

A small flickering connection already established, understanding to be enhanced, heightened in the strange air of mist like the sky painted green before the thunderstorm…
Show me someone who is truly content, someone who is perfect, where nothing is wrong… it is just that in some of us this ‘oddness’ seems more prominent, more despairing…
Rambling is good… tangents are good… I do it all the time… Can’t think in a straight line… things get piled up on top of each other… sort of scrambled together… this goes wrong… then this… then that…
Passion… Passion… It’s a word that buries itself in your mind, trickles through your veins, heightens your senses, tastes exotic, delightful… something you really desire… desire too goes with passion… a passion for desire… So many dark ephemeral images floating through… I think also that we are all bound by some sense of doing as expected… I too lack some willpower to do as I desire…
To take upon another’s despair… to release the burdens of true despair… then perhaps I might have a logical reason for my own somewhat distorted despair… that seems to grow out of nothing… or perhaps just out of others woes… perhaps I just adopt despair…
Everything seems to degenerate, to fall to pieces, cease to be… perhaps we are all falling apart from the day we first scream for breath to come into our tiny lungs and begin life… perhaps that is all life is… degenerating, bit by bit…
I am just a little nebula of coppery tones that only so rarely leaps out to touch something…
These other figures, people inside us, dark drifting poetic souls, someone we crave to be to let loose, but instead we must keep them firmly pushed down, not allowed to surface… perhaps only in words, in our writing and poetry may they stick their heads up and sing… in me there is certainly Copper… but there’s other ghostly figures too, needing…
Flippant in the face of darkness…
And then we spiral… always so… and each time we spiral it gets worse and worse… is there ever a bottom to this spiral… shall we one day spiral down so much… that we can never return…
That’s always the strangest… so remote… so odd… where we don’t know where we are… flying… or falling… both… or neither… sometimes just before we’re standing at the top of the vortex… sensing everything on what might come next… and then we’re floating and falling… and losing ourselves…
Something to long for… a view unblemished with ideas of reality… to escape… to write… to just be…
Insanity is just what people stuck in reality think must be wrong with us souls because they do not understand… if you cannot comprehend someone else then there must be something wrong… it must be them… it can’t be them not connecting or realising or understanding… damnit your not insane… damnit I’m not insane either… we are just transcended… darkly so…
Chapters close… but how many times do we actually take the time to make a proper jab at the next one… we sense we are ending one, but by the time it is ended and another’s begun… we’ve not been paying attention and we’ve slipped behind again… constantly making promises that by the next time it comes around I’ll do this… and then forgetting until it is too late again…
Loving the darkness, the madness that is part of you… that contentment then seems foreign to your perceptions… not right, as though it was what was wrong and not the dark… perhaps that in itself is a form of purity… purity of darkness… welcoming it… cleansing it and it cleansing us…
Perhaps life is but a merry-go-round of circulating follies…
We’re standing on a ledge now… looking down onto the pavement, the void is but on the horizon… below a field of rusted rose petal leaves, dried from past wrongs, weather and sun beaten… so easy now to slip off and drown in bloodied rose petals… they tell me to remain here on the ledge, looking down… but their soft caress will soothe me, their rosey bloody petals they will calm me now…
Ah if we could cease to exist for just a little while every now and again sometimes that’s what I think would be best to be able to just say 'hey I want to cease to exist for say a couple of days and then pop back', how more refreshing would that be then. Sometimes even to just be able to clear out the junk that’s clogging up your mind to be able to make a bonfire of braincells to just be free for a bit…
There are times when we are in small limbo’s, what do they call it sometimes, procrastination, yet there are other times when the most important things touch us and we are unable to grasp at them, focus on them to do something, we have so many yearnings that we so rarely are able to act on these and do what we desperately desire to do so, perhaps we are lost in our own timidity…
I adore black and white, and sepia pictures, I often despise colour photography, unless the image itself is powerful enough to overcome the distraction of colour…
Shatter too is a word that recently has haunted my mind, as though I wish to shatter into a million fragments and somehow cease to be conscious, yet I seem to be this heavy stone that will not float or break…
People sometimes assume that we wish pity, clucking sympathy, when sometimes it is just a quiet touch of acknowledgement that will suffice, or ignore it all and laugh at something instead, pity is a terrible word that charrs the mind, I have my own tears, I don’t need anyone else’s, they have enough of their own too, to not feel we must live on because everyone else does, when we’d rather just slip away forever…
To me my passion is internal, as though I’ve stowed it away inside me, nurturing it to my own self as I shun the rest of the world away, with the knowledge that one day I’ll let it fly… but perhaps I won’t… perhaps some of us never can, though some of us may truly lack it, but perhaps there is some strand of passion in all of us, its just a case of how we use it to thread through our life…
Perhaps chaos has become a drug, the way we cling onto something we don’t really need, even if it corrodes us, brings us to insanity, to me loneliness has become that drug, to just shut my eyes against the world even if it destroys me…
*holding a small shard of glass up, reflecting on the small curve of a fragment of self, to muse on an eyebrow, a small glint in the eye* I abhor mirrors, they seem to deny me something, as though to look at my reflection dismisses any other feelings, as though I can no longer kid myself that I’m anything else, as though it suppresses the inside of me…
*perhaps life is made up of a plain of broken glass and feathers, that we may roll mainly along glass, covered in feathers, sometimes there is no glass and we float, other times there is no feathers and we are pained; Or perhaps life is made of hands, clawing, patting, cloying, guiding, hands prodding us one way, directing us another, our own hands lost in amongst the tangled knot of fingers*…
Perhaps in a way we’re all just sleeping ghostly figures, gliding around a world that seems so artificial the more you think on it, constantly asleep, just moving because that seems to be what is dictated of us, like doing some strange dance we are inside reluctant to be part of…
I crave the loneliness, to hide away, shield myself, to slip away into the wider world, and only be noticed on a minimum level… sometimes I yearn to just get up and walk, wander off somewhere, walk up the coast line or something… yet I’m not a good walker, my feet wouldn’t be able to cope, and my mind can’t seem to walk away without them… so we remain…
Often there is that sensation, that feeling of brewing, so close to something, a short while ago I brushed against such sensations, I could feel so many powerful poetic words flowing through my veins, tingling at my skin, but life drowned it… before I ever got to grasp it
So many times we’re screaming, raging, so much internal wars battering at us, sometimes I wonder, ‘surely there can be nothing whole remaining inside, when we have been so repeatedly shredded, yet these shreds of ourselves keep being torn, ripped, battered, shredded, there always seems to be something left, there must be if there is something still capable of being torn…
What remains afterwards… perhaps we may be empty husks, torn and battered till nothing is left but a bare shell of a being, Yet there must still always be something if we feel, but then perhaps there is a point where we give up, yet there is always a little left, a little dredge remains from which to conjour up a little bit more of life… however pitiful it may seem…
*hands of sunset touched stone reach out to collect a tear of solid ice from beneath bitter stained vinegar eyes, and there it cracks, between the grains of stone, fragmenting, torn and tattered, slivers of ice then melting away, a simple exchange not to be explained*…
I may scoff at newspaper horoscopes, but something behind it holds truth, twin personalities, complimentary sides, I seem to believe that more and more each day, I seem to be magnified through various reflections, creativity too is supposed to be one of my attributes, creatively magnified into fragments…
There’s something about a sudden image, that you just want to freeze and look at it forever, it may not be anything remarkable, often it is something very simple, mundane even and it just makes your whole soul seem to soar. It seems to capture your attention and its hard to shrug it off, mainly its just a suggestion of something, a poignant reflection that you can’t express but just sense…
Black days creeping on us, tainting us, and painting us shades of black and grey till we melt back to where we belong in the mists of nothingness…
Irony is a funny little creature, it always seems to have its hand in things, and life seems somewhat skewed…
Glass of brandy for myself actually, something fiery, it sort of burns its way down your throat, a beautiful taste, feels like a proper drink, and that one might just burn away with it…
I’m thinking on how nice it would be too just “create-a-world”, Decide what you want in it or not, delete the rest and not have to live in anyone elses either, but we’re living in this big thing, and we’re supposed to make the most of it, as it’s the only one we seem to be getting and sure we’re all stuffing it up...
A being in its death throws can be a very dangerous thing indeed, animals which are speared, before they die, are the most likely to kill or crush… the cloying smell of a rose dying, oh how we die well, we grasp and tear whatever’s close at hand, a sort of way to ease the passage out again I suppose… Ah and so often we are tossed, empty away again, not given a chance to bloom and shine…
Behind the shards of glass, even behind the steel, behind the erosion and tattering, there remains a solid foundation, a solid rock surrounded by the chaos, tears melt into this, occasionally seep into the foundations of the rock, if just to reassure it, to give it reason to be strong, seeping through to remind the very essence of us to remain true, despite the mud and everything else...
A bottle of misery, well seasoned wine, now time to celebrate and see the final product, a lovely French chardonnay, well matured and of fine drinking quality…
Trapped in a porcelain cage, and yet if that cage breaks then you wither and die, yet the cage prevents you from flowering, so we remain in stasis, to have it broken will be two fold, will it destroy us or allow us to grow, or perhaps both…
Boxes within boxes, slowly unfolding, so many layers, so many boxes within… wheras the person hiding underneath… so many labels, where’s the cardboard of the box, where’s the bit underneath, behind all the masks, underneath all the labels, inside all the boxes… forever parcelled up into something we’re not…
Shadows and Bitterness… hmm certain evocative flickers of amber glass amongst the greyed world… A river of pebbles laced with tears, the shadows of ripples flickering down to coat them in darkness, soft shadws of Prussian blue and midnight flickering amongst the grey, shadows, bitterness and images flickering upon each other…
An emotional mirror… I look at you with a smile, I’m greeted with a frown, I look at you with a frown, I’m greeted with a smile, Here I am frowning and you tell me to smile, Here I am smiling and you ask why I’m not sad. Laugh and Cry, mingle together, mirroring myself, mirroring another, mirroring beyond that, to mirroring a mirror, and we bend in emotion as mirrors are mirrored, vanity in reverse…
Seem also a bit of a reverse, you see yourself as colourless sometimes, loving colour and needing it… For my own part I crave the poignant beauty of black and white, the sharp crisp definite tones that become defined in black and white photography, the sepia, the monotones, beautiful tones, not just a blurry mess of colour that seems so false…
Or a dream made solely of toast and butter upon an open sky, lost in amongst the bread-crumbs, soggy in the melted butter… and perhaps I stand here like a lost rock, so far removed, only a small thread connecting, a thread of a few words here and there that struggle to reach the other side…
Of course we are strong, for we still remain here, for if we didn’t have some ounce of strength in which to remain then we are weak and no amount of leaning will help, we may tilt and bend and sometimes seem deformed and twisted out of proportions, but like the most weathered rock we remain still here, and therefore we are still stones in the landscape of life, not quite yet shaken or broken…
Blasts from the past, like ashy fragments of paper, now cold, easier to handle, we can pick them up with faint amusement and reflect, it seems better then sometimes, small little memories which seem fine on reflection, not when they were burning hot, scarred and charred by the embers…
Perhaps names seems an appropriate thing for me to comment on, there might have been a time where I sort of cared, but perhaps I rarely did, I did loathe being confused with someone who I loathed, struggling to be accepted for who I am, that my intelligence was my one saving grace, and then being confused with the dimmest person in the school, hurt a little, I always fought that, still do… As for names now they seem like little fragments that help to layer and build up an image from which to hide behind, perhaps to be able to twist and turn in new directions, Copper has slight strength, a little bit of power and certainly fits better into his world than I do in mine, other names too seem to be like precious pebbles that allow me to sweep through like the river to direct with confidence…
Perhaps humanity needs a redefinition of relationships, rather than bullshitting around, I think it always seems to boil down to control, who controls who, who is dominant, who has power. Life seems to be a constant shifting of power between people, groups and forces. Powerplay, life as though a large chessboard…
I suppose I’ve always been the cynic, yet I perhaps do believe in a sort of spiritual side, yet not the same as what is perhaps the ‘common’ conception like everything I suppose it is self-constructed when it comes to me a sort of atmosphere that strikes me about certain images that is in a way spiritual, but I see it as what I find atmosphere in not what past ghosts did but that’s just how I see it…
Little tears stretching out to catch a few glints of sun, reflecting to a rainbow though I’ve never been one to like rainbows, prefer the softness of the rain…
It’s near impossible to just stand up and walk away, to do as we may wish, because in the end we seem to feel guilty, perhaps not guilty with any justification, but its as though we have an unspoken commitment to life, not the life we want but the life we ended up getting doled out with, its just hard to shrug this off and make it a commitment to the life we wanted…
It’s a poignant image you conjure up, one I seem particularly struck by… the slow turtle, reluctant to face the world, scared to face it, but it can’t hide and now its clawing at the broken glass that adds pain to the beach of sugar, not sweet but cloying, its struggling to make its way through life, yet its slipping away on the broken glass and cloying surroundings which will not let it be…
I suppose it would be much easier if we were all misanthropes and didn’t require love, but in the end we do, and it makes it all the more harder when our personalities clash against this, my personality demands a sort of loneliness, yet I do still require love and nurturing, its near impossible to find the balance between these two…
Aye I long to just scream for no reason, to just howl and howl and tear everything to bits, but we should try to continue to be sane, to not do things that might ‘scare’ other people, make them ‘fret’ or the like… Oh I do so long yearn to be a 100% alone, to not have a single voice around me, a single face, just to have nothing else there… but then would I be lonely and want people again…
Two little angels looking out over the beach, Mama’s floated away and the lifeboats too long in returning, Papa’s behind us with the big snapping dog, clawing at our wings, and we’re falling down now, down in the sugary glassy sand as we’re cut by the anger on the shore, Hoping Mama will drift back soon and take us out to sea with her and away from the dog with its jaws
A glass of brandy to fall into, a gin and tonic sky to drizzle down and spit on you, a slice of lemon for the moon, and lemon juice to sting my pains with, a dull knife to cut the world with, a serated knife to cut the heavens with, drizzle it in oil and tears and vinegar to kiss my lips with…
Shattered fragments of a glassy veil, now cutting through my skin, a pill of tears to swallow down with vinegar dreams, now I’m buried under feet of snow and cold and bitter and dying now, and rising up to taste the sweet poison and take another step towards the rain…
The weather’s out to get me and its chasing me down the street, the wind is howling down the avenues of my eyes, and driving a wall of rainy tears to trickle down my cheeks. The sun is hiding behind my hair, lost in a maze of coppery locks burning them to ash, and the weathers echoing my mind
Why do we hold aloft that which is broken, why do we love the crushed, why do we seem to so clamour towards that which is dying, do we hold onto whats crushed to make ourselves grow, as though by strangler figs if we envelope the dying tree in our comforting viney arms, we ease its suffering before we kill it so that we may instead flourish… I do not know…
Thinking now of the constructions of self, the soap opera displayed to the world which seems to laugh at the flimsy cardboard sets, the construction of darkness into which our souls slip into and become lost, spices and jasmine drowning me…
Glancing around, eyes spinning round lost in the bewilderness, then staring at the cliff face and laughing, looking back over to where the bridge is and the whole world shrieks and screams with the foetal Munch, looking back to the cliff, soaring now on the breaths of screams and laughter, slipping into a bliss, entirely self-constructed…
The artist works solidly through the heat and fire of the furnace, sculpting together, creating layers of protection, slender yet sharp and strong, thorns of bronze cast and recast to form the rose, a rose burnt in the furnace, melted and reformed, continually moving fluidly through the forms of tough metal, melting and forming not breaking and bending…
Our own little enigmatic parcels to unwrap, our own horrors and mysteries, we may laugh and smile and cry over our discoveries, I for my own part seem to be somewhat lost and drowning under all these layers of paper wrapped around me, like pass the parcel, only I wonder if there is anything down there, perhaps there is, only underneath an eternity of paper layers…
We look over the graveyard of our past, the monuments which we mourn, we can’t shake it off because we do not know what is next, and we are too confused to know what is now, so we know only the past, and it drags us down into the confusion of now and it prevents us from stepping forward, caught in a cycle of pain, the past echoing and haunting us still, even though we cannot change it…
A stream of brandy to ease the passage of the storm, poured forth solidified mimicking the blood of trees, the amber freezing in time the form of a skeletonal fish, a mere fragment of memory preserved in thoughts of pain, slip now into the Balkan seas, icy cold, stand on the rough beach of sharp cold pebbles, holding a fragment of amber, preserve a tear for the tree of life that’s mangled now…
I wonder what my edges are, how defined my seams are, or am I merely just drifting threads of material that has long since appeared cohesively together, I wonder how I define others seams and edges… do I even notice the patchwork of others that I hide behind…
I’m perhaps not quite sane enough to be reading or writing anything but I’m left with an image of a plague of ghosts dancing around our minds, circling, haunting us, clouding our memories reflected in mirrors blinded confused by light, our surrounding reality echoing in reflections in a hall of mirrors confusing the plague of ghosts that ashily dance through our minds and memories I’m too scattered to understand…
We’re thrust and whirled around in circles in some maddening merry-go-round at full speed the fairs night lights are twinkling out at me as my eyes are pricked with tears, my voice is lost in the screams, it is hollow and empty and cannot be heard the hands grasping out to touch me, little tracks of scratches covering me and the fairground stops its pain and we’re left breathless as a little bit is spun away…
A pair of hands held out, cusped together tightly, a stream of lies flowing over them, spilling over, projected onto the mirror of smoke from the old woodfire of memory, there on the other side another pair of hands echoing it, the Gemini twin or the Libra scales, mimicking it softly, scorning each other, balancing together, tilting downwards still…
The words are starting to scatter like cockroaches in the light… perhaps our mind doesn’t have little neutrons and electrical impulses and whatever in it, more like a whole array of insects, butterfly dreams of liberation, scattered thoughts like cockroaches in the light, the dusty spiders and their cobweb memories, and those icky little nits that pester us scratching…
The world is in shades of blue, cooled now from the grey that exploded into orange, the world is in shades of grey and we look at it through our jade green eyes, and we wonder briefly at it, as though it is the whole mess inside our heads, only expanded out to touch everyone, a mingling of all our mess and pain, I wonder what the worlds pain is then, if it’s ours merely magnified…
An auditorary hallucination… I’m reminded strangely of what seems like a phobia of mine, that every crash or thud or call emitted from the surrounding world is directly aimed at me glaring, angry with me the noises grating on my frayed nerves seeking to make me fall to my knees in surrender to its wrath… it is hard to find faith in that small part of reason that says it is only a hallucination…
There is something about the apples within apples image that intrigues me, as though our own life is each a multilayered apple, we peel back each layer of skin either through hurt or through joy, revealing shiny smoothe untroubled skins, and rotted despairing well scarred skins, the rotted layers seeming prevalent, the memory of unpeeling them scarring our perceptions of the smoother layers…
Claw at me and watch me shatter, explode and crumble into ruins, gently touch me with cloying eyes and I’ll shiver and shake and crumble into ruins, my rawness aches, your tearing aches, I cannot be strong and stand up straight, I’m flimsy and I fall, for my nerves are weak and they will crumble away again and again till the dust is all gone and I am no more…
A thin rope spinning round, have to jump over it or else your dead, a party of corpses playing to see who is reburied first on the slope towards the cemetery, crowds behind watching sucking on fairy floss singing in latin, a ceremony then of childhood games of helicopter, only this is no longer the playground, but the graveyard… I’m a little insane too
Living in a bottle of acid, dwelling in its murky depths, letting it seep in and tone our thoughts to putrid horrors. Our nerves, flogged beyond reason lying skewered out the top where the cork has been jammed right in, squashed, numb and fragile, the only thing exposed to the outside, before the whole bottle plans to explode with the horror of its acid self…
We’re sailing on the Atlantis sea, the sponge, the brush and me. The story goes that the Dish ran away with the spoon, only the spoons off with the cork for the wine and the Dish is still there sopping its tears in suds in the sink, the cow hasn’t jumped over the moon and has given up on milk choosing sugar instead, and all the little children are spilling out the sugar as the dish still cries
Textual snuggles… nice turn of phrase there, I suppose in a way they appeal because they both offer some sort of an idea of comfort yet without feeling so much suffocation, comfort whilst still in isolation and easier to access than fleshy snuggles…
Pain martyr burning away in the flames of despair, craving the attention of the fire flies, destroying them and being destroyed, paper soul burning away, ashy remnants blown to memory, everythings forgotten, even the bones…
People drew a vicious circle around me, a large one tipped in barbs, a warning that I do not stray to close to what’s outside, and I hurled myself at it at first, trying to tear it down, before I sat back and cried and drew it in close to me, so now it begins to strangle me and draw blood, and perhaps one or two try to shake it off me, but its me, its me now and I cannot let it go...
Toxic words are the dark residue of the soul, the strangled soul merely pours these out, the souls that breathe merely gossip…
I love the freedom of the wind, I ache sometimes for it to pick me up and hurl me into the abyss…
Destiny just can’t be ruled, time is a tyrant that taunts us either way, either with death for those who fear it or taunts us with life for those who suffer in it, and we long to rule and dictate destiny to have some power to direct this misery elsewhere, but destiny is fickle and perhaps weak and not really a viable force, or perhaps I’m just in a tyrannical cynical frame of mind...
A calico cat, stalking amongst the ruins, see its patches, its patchwork form, jagged edges where the pieces don’t fit together, where it didn’t all neatly join togher, see the new house where it circles round, clawing the support away, chucking up the hatred, cuddling up to the derision, stalking amongst the ruins, with its calico paws and jaggered patchwork fur...
Mirrors are always bad luck, don’t bother with trying to break them, merely looking in them shatters any illusions, something about you seems more pathetic looking in them, is this all that there is, when you’re not near them you seem to perhaps believe your something else, self-confidence is perhaps allowed to take a small little grip, before being shattered with reflection…
We wandered around in the bog of our mind as it drowned, and then the drought came and dried up all the mud till all was dry earth, cracks through our conscious bleeds out the weirdness and then the dry dust is picked up and blown away, leaving us empty and bare and still walking though in this numbness of nothing we’re too dry to care…
And the days bleed together in a calendar soaked with tears, we’re gasping towards the end of each month as time tags along behind dragging us down with the thought of more months to come, we’re lost in this sombre race with time, falling, stumbling, struggling to find the breath to stop choking, trying to find a way to make everything smile and be alright…
Even in amongst the ruined darkness, there is still a couple of white feathers able to lift us up to breathe in the fresh air…
A wave of blue, that folds up around us, huggling close to us, not quite drowning us, merely threatening us, we rise up above it and then sink down below it, our mood shifting to the seas tides
I often feel that with my words, as though they are worth nothing, and should be ripped to shreds, because they lack something then, when first written they seem like they should be lovingly embraced and appreciated, but a short while out in the cold and they seem quite like miserable wretches to be cast aside with contempt
We’re going round and round the possession carousel, drowning in ourselves whilst the music seems out of tune and irony is sneezing quietly in the corner…
I’m not sure entirely what it is but it always seems to happen, just the tiniest little thing that suddenly crashes a good mood down. Sometimes I feel that I’m floating on such a good mood and then someone might just say something to me, not necessarily anything even vaguely major, but just something simple and mundane like ‘could you put the towels in the dryer’ and you’re nerves are just raw, and you hadn’t noticed, and sometimes it is more than that
And I turn and stand to look at the blood moon, and I reach up my arms to catch the sun as it falls, falling into it, but I’m cast aside into the ashes instead, not allowed to not remain, and the angels and lullaby’s long since ceased, and our heads are pounding instead, on a heroin high and off with the pixies, without ever having gone looking for them in our innocence still…
Autumn leaves ripped asunder by harsh winter leaves, torn, bruised, fading, scattered, why can’t they slip away in peace, nurtured softly to the ground, rather than ripped and torn this way…
I’ve always been a scattered one, scattered and alone, it’s not as though I’ve been scattered into different spots to be comforted in different ways, but scattered and shattered into oblivion instead…
I think its somewhat of a shame that evolution has deprived us of a tail… I wouldn’t mind a nice big bushy squirrels tail to hide behind and curl up into…
There has always been something of a sinister edge to things for children… nursery rhymes about the black plague and the one about the well seems to suggest something about rape, there was a thing with something called Bill and Ben the flowerpot men, with a very sinister farewell to the show, it was in the blitz ages and suggested that we could all be blown up so maybe we won’t see you again next time…
The one behind the camera, looking out through the lens, photos of nature, yet its not neat and pretty, a rotting tree trunk, a mangled branch, rocks weathered away by the pounding sea, the frothy sea choking on itself, and then now and again, though just a little bit, will be a picture of a person, though without a smile, and despises the colour, wants only sepia or black and white…
Abstraction cookies, baked to disbelief…
Coming to love oneself, one shard at a time, which shard shall I hold up now… the one of dreams of martyrdom, only I don’t like the spotlight, a bleeding angel against the thorns, never did like the roses, to popular, to pretty, to well known, to well loved already, I loves the snowdrops… always so sad, I didn’t mind the thorns though…
Don’t we long to live in one single moment… yet I can’t help but thinking that we’d only end up destroying the moment, as though it is to perfect to be sustained for more than a moment…
Deal out the cards, glancing at them quickly, let me be the jester and the fool, the joke of everything who turns his sadistic wit merely back at them with a blink… but a fool courts scars, do I taunt the candle to burn me or lose myself in flirtation with the ice, see me burn up in smoke, stick my hand in the fire… look its warm, it doesn’t hurt, well perhaps it does, but I’m the fool remember…
And we nibble on the barely ripened fruit, a crispness in the air, a tang of juice, sweet possibilities edged in disappointment, little bits a bit too over ripe to be of comfort, too hard, though the soft fruit sometimes does not appeal either, at least in the crispness you feel some sort of merit, but a bitter tang to what seems sweet…
The leaves are gathered in heaps now, piled up in dusty corners of a room, pillars of ashy limbs guiding the way in, but the leaves are not yet matured, they seem bland and dull, lacking coherency, you cannot write about the piles completely rotted away, only about those which have just started to shrivel up revealing diversification…
A jar of boiled lollies, contempt boiled over… with their little candied stripes, can’t decide either way… red and white stripes… never liked red and white, blended or striped… bullseye, spot on with that contempt… black and white stripes, perhaps I just don’t like stripes very much or I dislike white… Bah humbug, contempt laced with satirical irony… contempt is certainly striped
Hold out my two palms, see them mirrored here, revelations scrawled on one, symmetry jarred. Symmetry seems to me something I on one side despise for being too perfect, yet on the other hand strangely drawn towards, but jarred symmetry is good, something which is at odd angles, not perfect, yet is reflected… I am a Gemini after all I suppose…
24 Hour Hell also provides discounts on cheap highly flammable fuel for your rants, make your rant all the more fiery, also encourage all your friends to come along as hell is far more fun when there’s other people to poke sticks at. There is an all day eatery with various food stocks such as the very popular chargrilled rats with iron filling, oh and don’t forget to check in for a good whipping too…
stagnant… aye I can see that, its as if its all there, it feels like its all in place, but its this sticky residue in the bottom of our mind, tainting everything yet not flowing, we can smell its stench, no longer sweet because it has turned into gluggy residue which seems suddenly unacceptable, not sure how to flood it again to make it come to life rather than rotting away…
Dark muses tend to be the better muses I find, though I must say mine has been sadly lacking of late, much to my disdain, I hope she comes back soon as I do miss her and I do want to get back into writing some of the more darker stuff…
Wind whipping through white folds of drapery, mirrored by dark shadows playing, dancing at the coyote’s callings, see the moon illuminate us now, white ghosts gliding through the night, disturbing the shadows, attracting too much attention, slink back into the greys, stop glowing so white, the coyotes might get you then for disturbing their peace…
I’m reminded of violets and roses, lovely cream chocolates which are always so strange, pick some flowers out of the garden and turn them into chocolates… and sleeps merely toying with me like some distempered child throwing me about…
And so it sweeps back into the system, that depression that never really goes away, and you think it might all be better if there was someone else there, some sort of ideal to which you’ve always dreamed and measured things agains… ‘Is that why we’ve gone mad brother’, ‘perhaps sister, as though creating this madness in which we dance will be some sort of trickery so we believe that we’re fine’…
And I want to lie on that lawn, sit on that roof, hop on a train and end up in the middle of nowhere, lie down on the ice, dive into the harbour, go anywhere and everywhere in the shiny glint of madness… but responsibility… why do I still feel tied to that, if I can shrug a feeling off then perhaps I’ll be free, and where’s something real…
It’s that’s the world seems so garish, trying to be bright when it’s not, as though if it was all black and white and sepia then it would be alright again, as though the images in black and white from my camera are how it really should be, sort of in truth yet veiled in this delicious mist… and yeah I’m too much of a coward to run away either…
The after-midnight destruction crew, noisily crashing through any remaining shreds of sanity in one’s life and mixing them all up again… suppose we should try to learn how to get to sleep earlier perhaps…
*sucks on a lemon and winces a little* must remember to stick to the limes I think, just as bitter perhaps a little more twisted and there’s a somewhat self-satisfying tang to them that is quite refreshing… in amongst winces…
I know that you are stronger than you sometimes seem, I know that everytime I try to define myself I write it ontop of previous thoughts till it becomes too scrawled that I can’t read a word, but aye, I know too that life is good, despite the paths of pain that seem to lead to it…
Looking through the lens it all looks so bright, colours twisting here and there but I don’t notice them so much, it is the patterns the twists and turns that I notice, and there they are in fine focused black and white… and perhaps it’s a tarnished view that I seem to like, yet I suppose I must admit too that I also despise it…
Look around the cities and the roads and there’s all this noise bombarding us, promises of excitement from billboards and other ads, and we look back at ourselves and we feel coated in eternal blandness… yet the truth of it lies beyond that, or perhaps closer, not in the city, but just outside the door, with our arms up in the rain and the blackness of a cool night, simplicity can bring pleasure…
I’ve always liked rain, its twists and turns reverberating different moods, aye its easing, soothing, yet it also causes disruptions, annoyances… it’s constantly shifting, never static, there’s movement in it which is soothing and disrupting, I prefer it to the sun though still…
The blackberries always seem very fitting, see where their bruises seep out the blood of their pain, their thorns and brambly bits scratching as if to ask you in turn to share their bruisings of pain… and the rain, ah the rain… always seems to match a frame of mind…
I think I’m always ending up censoring everything, dividing things up into, well I’ll say this bit here and this other bit there, can’t help it, I think of something where I’ll be frank yet end up narrowing it down to, don’t talk about this here… so many metaphors that I hide behind, generalisations, mainly metaphors, just speak it in your head, don’t let it out anywhere else…
Perhaps the flame is an adequate metaphor for life, anger fuels the flame, little decisions send the flame blowing in different directions, sometimes perilously close to extinguishment, depression, aye well it seems to dwindle the flame to some pathetic dimness that just doesn’t quite get to go out, and life around us, well it keeps tauntingly blowing at us…
It’s certainly not as silly as it seems, there are times when I’ve sort of stretched out my fingertips aching for some sort of magical power to jitter between them before leaping out to form some beautiful crystalline pattern in the air infront of me or incinerate great swathes of reality, and well sometimes it almost feels like it is there… and the imagination, well it does have a power and life of its own…
“I’ve lost my soul to bits and bytes, digital emotions that burn within a very real heart” --- why does that sound so much like a first line of some poetry…
This crumbling leaf, tossed and turned about in the wind, torn a little fragile too… I thought leaves were meant to die, to wither up and fade, not turn a bright shade of jaded green… but then perhaps its spread out a little in ways… and perhaps I too think of just how much I’ve read past too since this begun… it seems like we’ve come somewhere, perhaps not anywhere much yet but slowly…
Adoration, Adulation… those swings between love and hate… but always someone focused on you, noticing the details that scream to be noticed, someone to love against and fight against, but always there… and yeah it’s something I’ve wanted too but have never dared to look for… and I wonder what I’m doing here, as though I need to borrow your demons to dance with mine in my mind…
Are memories something we once lived or were, or are they perhaps just faint whispers of something else, something that was, something that might have been, something that isn’t ours but we still feel something familiar about it, like little wisps of air that suddenly tweak at our senses as we plod forwards, not quite able too fully look back but we can briefly feel its there…
Why am I standing here, in the rain, only the rains dry, not very good for concealing ones tears when the rain is still dry. I pick up a piece of this rain, and it’s a scrap of paper with writing scrawled on its surface, a name of April and various little phrases, condensing ones life, and I keep a hold of those pieces and place them in a box, merely because I can’t cast aside the rain all the time…
Don’t burn it… bury it… bury it for a long long time, and maybe one day when your hair is as white ash, then maybe with shaky hands look through it, see where you came from, I read so much of it, could not read any more, but I think there’s so much of you in it, that I say don’t burn it but bury it, in case there is a time when it should be unearthed again…