Just something that leaks now and again...

my days no longer run to a schedule. i wake up miday because its less time i have to wait for the night to come creeping in. 2 films long? yeah. 2 films until my dad gets home. thats about 4 hours until i ahve to leave the house for the evening. i love my parents, but there still people. or maybe i should jsut stay in and listen to all the songs on my spotify playlist... see if i can dig up anything worth writing about. no money to get high this week (there would be a sad emoticon here, but i cant bare using them. but the urge i just cannot seem to control).

i cant seem to win with myself. i wage war against my ego with my ego. a never ending battle. every minute passes with pain staking detail etched into every second. i am unaware when im asleep (whatever that means). i sink with these moments. i am the dying soldier of a culture best known for its 'humanity'. i am dying within you. people talk to me about my fufture asthough its something i never care to bless with my thoughts. the truth is i think more about tomrow then i do about today. my mind trails of into the future where i imagine rosey cheeked women and the 9 to 5 job that gives so much purpose to the night.

i sicken myself with relentless question.

today there are no measurements. there is nothing to preoccupy my mind with other then the overwhelming yearning to be somebody else. today i shall be named rupert and wear a big green suit with hate written on the back of it in pixelated bold lettering. today i will take on the world with my golden handshakes and my feathered opression. today, my name is rupert. and i shall tlak to you as though id known you my entire life. yes, that seems fitting. maybe you should be someone else aswell. you could be me. i will lend you my pen and my notebook and you can take notes of what you see. all instructions written on the backs of eyelids. we sleep becasue we ahve to read up about tomorow. 1 hour - 2 - 3 - 4 --------------------- we could go on forever. instead we should spend the time counting stars on moonlit evenings. i could hold your hand and we could laugh about things as if they were the result of some ridiculously pathetic circus freak's act. or perhaps not. today i am still myself. and i shall interpret things as such.

at the very center of my imagination stands you. visions of you. streaming. fluctuating. dependent only on one thing... need. it is indisputable that i am in need of some solidarity for which to stand upon. i can no longer look at the mirror before me and say "that is i". instead i now say "is that i?". makes sense if your singing. i am tempted to seek out the sirens song. it is as beautiful and rich as her pout lips. but i must not. no. i must not. instead i will loose myself in this cloud of smoke that surrounds me. blankets me. sentuates me.

time stands still for no man. good job im not a man then. time stands still for me because i know theres something worth seeing. i am trpped within the ever pushing envelope. i will post myself whilst laughing about the crazy, warped and random things i write about. how pathetic. i breath because my body is a biological machine and is programed to do so. it powers my meaningless existence becasue its what it was made for. my thoughts on the other hand... what is the purpose of direct experience? who fucking cares.

i am angry at myself for not being able to write my thoughts down as intricatly beautiful as they are in my mind. for that, i despise every single bone in my pathetic body. i hope i suffer for it. i hope i die because of it.

2 dirsty glasses and a sound something like burning a whasps nest later...

only with ink and paper do people bare there souls to the world. all reality just a lie to the great literature of our time. i see no beauty in this world. i speak none. hear none. recieve none. but when its written, when all of languages fantazmagorical intricacies are applied. poetry is born, and it smiles up at me. as if it new me before the universe burst into life. my mother was a cliche.

i sit there and think to myself i cant grow up in a world thinking love is this temporary

the thing i miss about her most is the closeness. the feel of two souls on the verge of touching is quite magnificent. electrifying. sentimental. heartbreaking. as though all love manifests itself within the feel of her skin. sharing a beautiful moment in time. splitting it right down the middle with our pure, unadulterated passion for each other. i sit here and tantilize myself with the memories of a far gone lifestyle. and they feel asthough they never existed at all. either way the edges are worn from continuous playback. touching from a distance further over time.

its funny, the small things you remember. my mind wallows in unacountability. its like trying to transcend purple velvet laced with barbed wire. that final sting as it pulls away. i am inconsolable. lost within the realms of a cultural love mistake. pushing the envelope in an attemp to free myself from this place. i am but a character from a soap opera who is fluent in russian literature. i wish i where a Warhol silkscreen, hanging on the wall. my thoughts are not of a bright future with theropy classes and 2 valium to be taken every 3 hours with hot ribena. no. instead theres just you. you and your smile that forces me to remember. i am living within paradime of my own making. stewing in delusion, seasoned with repression. not even the pills will talk to me now.

i am all the whithering rose petals. fallen onto laminated flooring after that valentines day mess. i am the unmistakeable sound of the oncoming hypnogogia (often the slow vibrating sound of fear). i am every troubled teen holding a razorblade. i am tha drunk guy who seems to speak with the alien tongue. i am the loose change rattling about in your pocket. soon to be lost between the sofa cushions. i am the werid steins you find in the secluded corners of your kitchen. i am the stray blu tac found on every 16 year olds walls left from where the posters of idols once hung. i am the poets vengeful malice. i am those bob dylan lyrics you wish you could make sense of but at the same time know its far better to be unaware.

to sing one must first be brave. to dance one must first find feet. feckless feet. fudge featus feeling for faculty. /f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/f/. hmmm. definatly a working progress.

time is highlighted by human perception. we are aware of time. we are aware of a passing second. memory is a certainty we often take for granted. though memory is often a tough burden to bare. in a moment i shall go to bed and attempt to sleep. if i wake up remembering a dream that included you, i shall note it down. so you think of something to say whilst i go fulfill this busy schedule. i picture my dad laughing and sayin "you dont know the meaning of a busy schedule".

you where the only girl that didnt make my hands clammy. did i tell you that? no i dont think i did.

Tampering with tenacity

Nothing to do with everything (James Stewart in Rear Window)

pure infectious cryptiscism coursing through my veins.
i silently praise god for lost. the only element of my life left with any real mystery. i hear my brother cursing down the microphone at his friends. i think to myself, "he should make good use out of the time where he doesnt feel the need to swear". i love it, but i wish i didnt.

desmond runs about frantically. the abnormality of the music blends perfectly with this scene.
Q-U-A-R-A-N-T-I-N-E
only now do i realise what a beautiful word this is...

clutching my coffee mug, leaning againt the marble fireplace. the heat slowly setting my nerves alight. i think its a test, if i can hold the cup for long enough without putting it down then i win. i dont knwo who the looser is though... with this in mind i set down the mug. the most wide spread and publically used drug on the planet they say. bringing in millions every day. feedin the cultural frenzy that starts with a tablespoon every morning. 2 if your a really serious type of person. nothing like the bitter sweet taste of habit to get the day going.

there is no begining to what i write, just as there is no end. it appears on the page as it appears in my mind. i used to spend hours contemplating all the things i could write about. i had to do something, i was sick. but when it came to writing them, it just looked like a slightly organised scribble of words and situations. as if i where trying and failing to sound like berkley or henry james.

nope nope nope. being imprecise suits me just fine. the universe is based on imprecise equations and situations. chaos theory, novelty using, tampering sideways, up is down, down is up, right is lemon, Q stands for S, time stands for cobweb. nothing should make sense. it gives us more things to try and work out. isnt that what all this is about?

the half used selotape that you cnat seem to find the end to. the blackening stains at the bottom of coffee mugs. the lighters with no flint to cause a spark. imperfections fill time with space to think. and i like to think. downsides included.

iv tried to cut down using commors. pointless. just full stops for being who cant relate anything. people have forgotten how beautiful language can be. it doesnt matter how you tart it up with grammar. a word is a word. pure, simple, transluscently wonderful. thats all i have to say about that for now.

am i done? i think so. i have nothing else to say. brief, lovely.

A fluctuation in habit

No mans life can be encompassed in one telling. There is no way to give each year its allotted weight, to include each event, each person who helped to shape a lifetime. What can be done is to be faithful in spirit to the record and try to find one's way to the heart of the man...

a day without facebook or myspace... difficult. my addiction to social absurdities is fed by these sites. watching people exploit there personalties into little white text boxes/ hope resides there perhaps?/. speaking of tiredness and depression. excitement and desperation. effortlessness and exploitation. fear. hope. madness. how i love them all. each word felt differently by its maker. branching off into new realms of possibility and definition.

he will be saying prayers in the garden just follow the others...
sad scene unfolds. abrupt. takes many by suprise to see this event take place so early on in the picture.
and the world turns to ash before my eyes...

cynicism is realism. defined by question, executed by answer. turning logic to dust. i sprinkle its sad remains to the wind, with a gleeful look upon my face, as if iv just witnessed the end of the world... time now just a void. possibilty made of fluroscent colour and beautiful imagery. as Terence Mckenna would say, "now the elves are near"....
the sound of silence echoing throughout my thoughts. disturbing the voices of lost souls that bring me to unknown places, where only fear and complacency reside. i speak my first words. a foreign tongue. alien voice. they break through the air and tear apart the landscape. the first tremour of creative consciousness destroying every ion of unobserved simplicity.
i am no longer the son of man, but the son of space. unnocupied space. twirling artisticly through time. no pattern. no equation. no reason. just there. now here.

i couldnt do it. it was nearing 12 when i finally gave in. funny, some people cant kick smack, booze, tabbacco. i cant kick people (lol). i havent had a proper converstation in a while. though when i say conversation, i dont mean conversation at all. atleast not by all human definition. i dont think there is a word for 'a proper conversation'.

hes pretty hot
why would you say that
well... he is
well yeah i guess, but why would you say that to me?
i dunno, just sorta came out
...
...
lets go get a drink.

did this conversation exist? i dunno. perhaps. im asleep most of the time anyway. that sticks like a pin in my mind though. if it did happen then im sure i was pretty pissed off for the rest of the day. it was probably replaced later that evening by wet kissed that shattered anxiety into a million pieces. small talk, big talk, flirty talk, stupid talk, emotional talk, surreal talk. dammit i should take not of these things. they could be such a good talking point.

thats not a converstation though. thats just an every day, run of the mill occurence. girl says something, boy dislikes, girl gives half assed apologey, boy gives half assed acceptence. and all of a sudden nobodies believes you anymore. you still wanna get laid though, youll pull it off somehow. youll say you didnt care and that she must trust you alot to have told you. ahh maybe got out of it though. drive home. can i come in?
small talk, big talk, flirty talk, stupid talk, emotional talk, surreal talk. new wed get there in the end. can i go home now? gotta let the dogs out.

life is one big series of emotional 3 minute clips. full of juicy fruit words like tenderness, treachoury, fluition, concsiousness, salvation, minimilist, surrealist, apperition, density, equation, temper, temper, temper, 4 leaf clovers, oblique, tangerines, sex, murder, fear, semi-illiterate, fuck etc etc etc. most of which are spelt wrong when written down. who cares? i dont. i know what i mean and im sure you do to.

The pleasing remix of vibration through air...

Lovely viewing

A constant change within my thoughts

pressing upon the tranquililty of an emotional moment

Spinning geometric wheels are false

telling me im not the son of man

but the sun of sky

of earth

of sea

.

Waiting for the envelope now

corners pushing

the change in language is frequent

and is beset by the perception of man

No order to be placed

No memory to erase

Fluctuating...

Spinning resonance of being

Thought provoking

though seemingly unaware of tampering masses

Vicarious in there objective

sad...

A story of fact and fiction... Always the best kind.

Artwork created by the amazing Alex Grey

"Existence... Well, what does it matter? I exist on the best terms i can. The past is now part of my future... The present is well out of hand" - Ian Curtis
Though it was kinda poetic.



God shes beautiful... My hands are clammy from the anxiety to be nearer to her. My breath becomes rapid as though it expects a sudden change in atmosphere. Does it know something i dont? Im responding to her glances with reflex like twinges of the mouth. As if an invisible pupeteer has wired the sides of my lips.
No... She didnt... That must have been my over bearing subconcsious... This feeling stays true to the poetic grammar used in books that portray these very situations. Amazing.
I sip my drink tedioulsy on the edge of my seat. Eyes moving rapidly, scanning the whole room for suspected ego maniacs that i may have to keep a watchful eye on until i leave. Last thing we want is a scene.
There she is again. God she really is beautiful. The stereotypical gut pain begins to grab at my insides, i swear theres a guy in there just as eager to get out and touch her as i am. He has good taste.
Her hair is curled, curly hair is amazing, the lockes seem to bounce and sway with every minor movement. Its the type of hair you can tell shes spent hours perfecting with her girlfriends by her side. Perhaps she slipped with the curlers and burnt herself as all of her friends jostle to be nearest to her. An understandable cause for the injury.

Perhaps its time to move again. I think ill go get another drink. This ones pretty flat and something appears to have flown into it during my abscent mindedness.
As i approach the bar (all the while questioning why, of all the geometric space in the room, the fly had to land directly in my drink) i realise i havent seen my friend in a while. As i ask the ratehr fetching barmaid for another cold beverage my mind wonders as to where he might have got too. Not that it matters, hes a fairly mature individual whilst inebriated so iv never worried about his common dissapearences during parties. I end up at the conclusion that hes probably found the best looking blond in the place and is deep in mouth to mouth as we speak, resting against the walls outside.
I didnt care, i never cared, so long as he left her alone...
I decide to take my drink outside for some frsh air (a rather comic paradime as i would probably light a ciggarette).
The atmosphere is fresh this evening. There is the lightest of breezes kissing the night air, as though it where saying a tender goodbye. I look upward at the night sky, immacualte. Not a single cloud pesters my view this evening. I see the familiar star signs often depicted in science books, also the ones iv invented my own special names for.
"Yeah id be careful if i was you, shit likes to fall from that thing"...
... I pause, the voice so recogniseable yet so foreign to me.
I turn to face her... She is so beautiful. My affection for her is increased tenfold by the lighing given off by this seemingly perfect scene above us both. At this moment, to say i love her would be an incredible understatement.
I give a rather embarrasingly delayed chuckle, but she smiles none the less.
"I brought you a drink"...
Her voice so soft, so tranquil, like the echoings of a falling rose petal.
"Thanks, bug free?" Dammit...
"Err sure"
Despite the rather blurted gesture of gratitude, that smile on her face still remains unscathed.
All nervous pleasentries out of the way, we continue to sip at our drinks (in that hurried way that often accompanies these types of situations).
But she doesnt look at me, not once. Nervousness? Intimidation perhaps? It is then that i realise iv been staring at her for the good part of 30 seconds. Taking in every aspect of her facial structure. It is perfect to me, more then perfect. I am reminded within those brief moments, of a singular snapshot of Grace Kelly in the movie 'Rear Window'... I never thought i would see a face of such beautiful complexion again. It appears i couldnt have possibly been more incorrect.
With this rather disturbing thought in mind, i tear my gaze away from her. Though this is something i instantly regret doing as the scene my gaze jsut happen to fall upon is rather unsettling. There, in the bushes directly ahead of us both, lies my friend with one of the most startled looking blonde girls iv ever seen. Even from a distance, her makeup concealed every line on her face that made her look human.
I look to the girl at my side (looking perhaps even more stunning if possible), her face appeared to have turned a very deep shade of violet, she had obviously been looking at the 2 primative figures infront of us for some time now.
Without thinking, without even consulting the potential consequences that might be left trailing by this descision, I turn to her.
My arms coil around her waist so shes pulled ever so gently closer to my body. We are close now. I see for the first time that her eyes are an immaculate blue colour. I stare into them, lost within the light that reflects from the stars above us. They are indescribable, like pharoahs jewels lost withing a sea of opaque tranquility.
Her scent teases my nostrils as though it where the smell that they where created for.
We embrace each other for the first time. Closer then my imagination dared to go. It was as if id been searching my entire life for a feeling that i could never proove existed, yet knew i would have to meet somewhere down the road.
Only in a moment such as this can the worries of the world truely disintigrate into dust, leaving nothing but a distant memory, so far off in this stilling of time.
Bliss...