Moon and bread

Last night I gave birth to the moon
The air was humid and the streets smelled of bread
And chocolate
I cried hard as the moon rolled underneath me
The pain was unbearable and I wanted to tear my own skin
But you held my hand and let me tear yours instead

Arturo and I

Arturo and I are going to live forever. This relationship could never work but it helps that he’s dead.

I probably would have thought he’s a dick and he’d call me a self indulgent bitch on some empty car park in Bunker Hill. But I know him because his words smell of my skin and there is something about his poetry that strips the dick and the booze and the whores off and makes two of us. Arturo and I are going to live forever because he takes my madness away and makes it all ok.

days

My days are locked up in a waiting room and only I can call them out. They pick their noses with dirty fingernails and stare at me. I can sense they are getting impatient, savage. Before they used to keep busy making origami houses of different colors, entire cityscapes with cars and paper gardens. I didn’t notice them then. But now they’re asking questions – they’re making demands. They want more food and spades so they can bury their dead. For months now the days have not been called out. It’s too crowded in there and the conditions are making them do things out of desperation for my attention. Last night Sunday was raped by Wednesday in the toy house. Friday smashed Monday’s face in with a fire extinguisher then Monday tore Friday’s ear off with his bleeding teeth.
I can’t sleep at night. It’s a chaos of conflicting thoughts out there and screams that pierce my liver and make my left eye twitch. It’s been like this since I left him and then she left me and now I’m alone with too much time to think. And the days are impatient and hungry. They’re breaking down the wall and I’m scared because I don’t know what they are capable of doing.
They stopped begging for mercy now. I try to help them but it’s just another thing on my list and I need time to think.

individuality is madness

The only conscious decision we can ever make
Is suicide
And while she was lulling me from the dark
He always let me into his
Sometimes taking shape of a heavy palm
So clear in my mind
But it was always that palm that kept me warm
The heavy palm turned cold
And I became old
Falling apart
My body falling apart
And my mind
The same
And this madness I want to escape
It holds me hostage day and night
While the dead artists keep me alive
Anything can hurt me now
And my heart
Keeps racing like a wild dog
Towards masturbation

Stray dogs only come out at night

Stray dogs are the best kind

They are cautious
Because they know the strength of man
When he picks up a rock
But they look at you with human eyes
And if you let them
Follow you home in the darkest hours of the night

Without looking back
You will know they are there
Needing your presence
As much as you need theirs

And when
At dawn
You reach your house
They’ll be gone without goodbye

My claws at night

I claw through my flesh
At night
Looking for answers underneath my
Toe nails
And in the roots of my hair

My heart skips
Sometimes
Because I can’t sleep alone
Because I want more than I can take
Of me

Then something makes me mean
And I stab my words out
On your skin
Like cigarette buds
Bacause I can
Because I know how it hurts you.me

I push my limits
And yours
Only to turn around
And sob the night away in the bathroom

Before it finally takes me away
And my claws

I am moving

I am moving
I have packed some lunch
for the road
and the bare necessities
I may need before I get settled in.

I am moving into
my head
and I am planning
to have
A hell of a great
time.

There is nothing for me here

There is nothing for me here
Apart from empty streets with stray dogs
And my drunk shadow
Hovering on the steep concrete floors

There is nothing
Apart from memories that have turned into stone
That I am now kicking on my way back home

Everyone has their way…

Everyone has their own way
With Insignificance

Bandini shoots crabs
Chinaski plays the horses
Moriaty has to ‘go, go, go!’

I hide behind a striking mask of words
So soft on my face
Loud words
Vulgar words
Sometimes uninvited words

Disgusting
Disgusted
Over the top

But it’s quiet in there and
I can get on with my thoughts

And all those fountains

I always think about you,
When the weather is good
When everything tastes sweet
When the days are long
And I know there’s nothing we can’t do

I think about you and your sunny streets
I think about you and try to picture myself there
In your orange sunset

I want to dive into your concrete
Wash my hair in your fountains
and get buried in your fortress

I fantacise

The truth is you are the dead artist
I want to know everything about