Saturday, February 25, 2012

Marijuana wafts.


Cars’ headlights smear into a camera screen, turn calligraphy into bold characters into double lines and forms.

I now know why you do it.

They’re all in false counter-realities and one of them is the protagonist, sipping vast seas of alcohol as if they are morning coffee. Shadow deer and ballerinas and a bad posture forming a red X-ray on your back.

Actually being so happy you think you would die.


Beyond a stir of self-induced unconsciousness, words on pages blur into a beautiful haze, which makes you travel into the secret recessions of your body. In this one moment when all that is deliberately and accidentally wrong with the world ceases to exist, the love you want to forget rises like forbidden fruit. Enter God. Enter stolen lipstick. Enter a deformed face with no anchor whose soul tremors yours.


Goethe’s black widows hang in courtyards of slaughter houses. Intended circumferences become whole circles, deepening into necklines of forgotten traditions. Punishment is for discovered crime, so make mistakes but don’t confess in moments when you’re drunk enough to ask lawyers for justice on Sunday mornings, cup in hand.

You’re writing out the script of the second world war but even when all truths disappear and all realities become fiction, the thought of you lingers beyond all boundaries and dimensions. Everything else is gone and you’ve become everything. Perfect displacement. Perfect mapping of Columbus’ re-written routes.


Perhaps one day I will have the courage to send this to you, a letter you can touch without the stain of my perfume on it to tell you all I wanted was for you to tell me you owned me and then actually own me, Act upon the useless promises of love and become a sound alpha male. I have wanted you always, and will always want you and I will love you despite betraying you and getting consistently numb.

In green sliced disks, a soduku into your secret garden’s darkest lane.

I see your hospital breaks again and I know why you keep going back to it. I now know why your addictions always win. They will win despite all accidental babies so that the only future entry is an exit. We need an earthquake in North-East tail winds.

It’s a simple, stupid love and you can tell them all it’s the most honest lie you’ve ever lived and that nothing else in life makes you feel like this and that nothing ever will. Life may get better, but you don’t want better because this impossible present you have – that's all you need to get by on withering days. No one else who can make you shiver in joy and sorrow alike. You don’t need better because despite misusing and violently moulding her in the broad of your palm, building temples at her feet and stringing your fingers through her toes when she paints her nails, her clothes lying on top of your paintings in your attic, they make you wildly, uncontrollably happy. You can walk away whenever you want to protect me, you can put things on hold till it’s too late and people become nuclear-strayed ghosts of themselves. Then you will one day tell her you never did stop loving her.


If this isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

Friday, February 24, 2012

If I hadn't missed my plane.

That one morning I woke up and realized I was out of love with him. Shit. This was not supposed to happen! How will I ever write again? What will my words be if not vehicles of pain and longing? And who will they be for if not for him?

The morning was too normal for an event of this significance. I could hear the comforting sirens of an ambulance or a police car in the distance through the windows and the useless banter of blue-eyed freshmen. There was someone walking outside, struggling by the sound of her heels on the pavement. Coffee in hand, pacing down her to-do list, hoping someone would take the clothes out of the dryer. Even the sun was out, a dampening force in the perfect picture of a universe imploding.

I thought a few thoughts. Backspaced them in my mind. Thought more. Backspace.

The idea of him was enough to love, but in flesh, his demons were too big. And there were so many things that could fill up the space he occupied, the hours I spent talking to him, or being with him, or thinking about him, or thinking about what he was thinking about. Like dreams and ambitions, and bowling for the first time, and programming little computer games, and discovering what the hell supply chain finance entails, and how SEPA is the best thing ever, and why Basel 3 must be treated with a pinch of salt. It was almost liberating, being able to smoke the occasional cigarette without the hectoring, buying pinchy shoes without the puffing, and ducking kisses from charming strangers in Saturday night socials. It was a good life, except it didn’t have him in it.

I didn’t know what life was like without him, I didn’t want to imagine it because it seemed ugly and cruel and he still loved me. After six years, perhaps some fizzing out was inevitable. Maybe it was worth resuscitating. But his addictions always won. Without fail, he’d be in the hospital for some new sort of overdose which fuelled his artistic passions and helped him paint and amplified his perception.

Now and then I think of when we were together
Like when you said you were so happy you could die.

What a fucking mess. He didn’t even speak my language, thought I was killing my music by studying a degree with actual-world use, asked me to buy a violin without fail after the number of times I had said no. He was difficult and overbearing and full of existential conflicts. Yet he was not replaceable. No one else said the kind of bold, outrageous, senseless things he said. No one else was as flawed to perfection.

You can get addicted to a certain kind of sadness
Like resignation to the end, always the end

And yet, he wasn’t a charming stranger on a Saturday night social. He didn’t make me shiver anymore. That was quite a deal-breaker in my mind.

I'm already writing like I'm on an oestrogen binge.

Get out of my head. I don’t love you.

I think.

Wednesday, February 1, 2012

Strokes of blue.

It is cold outside to the point of misery. Despite the central heating, the blood in my feet is frozen, making them a grotesque blue-black. My shrink says I exhibit deviant sexual behaviour. He says there’s something very wrong with women wanting to be consumed whole, something wrong with them breaking the music of their bangles for it.

I wait all day for him to sink into his decadent reverie when he returns to me, filthy from the sins of living. I re-live his days, practice the things I'll say to him days in advance, the way he drags a glass into my hands and pours a drink into me. There’s a recession out there somewhere, and employment is hard to come by so they make him work harder though he says there isn’t much to do. He tells me about tax hikes and benefit cuts but these things don’t matter because we’re not a family. Is it wrong to spend your days imagining someone covered in your skin, wrapped around you? Is it wrong that his smell lingers though he goes away for days. He is with you when you pick the strawberries from your garden, pay the bills, and wash the conditioner from your hair. He is with you, when you walk down streets full of running people, with an absent smile, secure in your knowledge of no knowledge. 

Your says there’s something wrong with wanting it so much, wanting it despite never having had it, not being able to walk away from it.

They come in with their contagious diseases, leave a tickle in your throat. There's a faded wedding band imprint on his finger, but never a wedding band. In the morning you're anaemic, but you must get up again, get doused in his favourite perfume. 

Does it feel wrong?
Then it must be.
But I do it without your permission.

It is cold to the point of bitter misery, and both your feet are freezing so you ask him how it will work. He says all else will cease to exist when you finally lie beside him. As if a room can contain all your restrained emotion before it fizzles out with a pop. Perhaps the scotch loosens him up, and he confesses wanting to exploit you. Exploit, a filthy word of manipulation and abuse. Of moulding clay in ugly forms of your liking. Your shrink says it’s classic Stockholm syndrome, he harvests medical terms, you invest in fantasies. You kiss again and again, but not the soft, deeply meaningful sort. He starts speaking about great men, stops, kisses you again. The kind of lips who will never cede control till they will break down completely. It feels worse every time, but you keep going because he needs this sense of power, and frankly because you like it. The scotch makes you an appendage of his physical needs and you close your eyes, because in the darkness, it’s easier to pretend.

Never mind I’ll find someone like you..
He laughs, calculated and cruel. 
There is no one like me.

His mind has wandered else where, and he pulls away from you to do something on his iPad, his fingers so gentle on the touch screen. He puts the gadget away, takes off his glasses and tumbles into sleep. You sit up with his scent upon you, finishing what little scotch is left in his glass.
Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.