tick toppled

this is all a waiting game.
one hour until i find out if the confines of das uber boot can forever been shuffled trunkwards and outside.
it is still tender though, which causes concern.
i didn't paint my toenails, which causes concern.
my mum hasn't picked me up yet, which causes concern.
my stomach is flopping and flipping, which concern caused.

brightside = a room of redpurpleblackish walls is almost done, and i have something happy on the way:something for reflection and a velour pouch, flip open and shine on crazy diamonds..
toodle pip and a hard kick i need a cup of coffee.

killing time

both fists raised to the bar, tucking stolen cigarettes in sleeves, wrapping lips around cold calm collected bottles of post partum depression... how much can pass in the dark light of a southern drawl between country's greatest hits..

i say it one last time for you, then we really have to go...

a boy walks in to a bar with a backpack and a guitar slapped on his back, stop me if you've heard this one before.... we clap along... we bounce to rhythms we don't know.. i file words away to the back of my brain to save for the late night tea sips and pen marks.. come in late, round two ae em, hope for a late night glimmer of hope, dreamt a bout a funeral pyre last night and i couldn't stop thinking about how my u keeps sticking... i brush up my teeth after sinking into labourous sleep.. my sheets are stale with hurt, smoke stains, and skin sweat out alcohol...i've black marks on my arm, ash in sleep mascara in light...

i will let you down, i will make you hurt..

i wash it all off in oranges and cover white dew with flowers from her childhood.. i listen to johnny cash sing what have i become, my sweetest friend i repeat. repeat. repeat. repent.

When you are kissing someone who is too much like you it's like kissing on a mirror, when you're sleeping with someone who doesn't get you, you're going to hate yourself in the morning...

I can't get songs out of my head

frozen, sweetie pie

i know i should turn it off.
i'm not even looking at it.
the volume is turned to nothing because I'm finding myself  watching more sounds from my childhood on youtube than anything else.. the air is heavy still, there was a false start into fall last night, tempratures grazing 90 and steadily held on as the humidity dipped and the wind kicked me into a patio chair with pursed lips and a sugar spice inhale. i sank in with a hot cuppa- sweat keept my white stark skin glowing in the citronella light.. i picked up a pen and sketched on one knee and thought that the rain coming down in half steps meant that summer was finally over...
walk back in, cause dark calls friends away, always away, and i don't want to go through these thoughts with out a smile wink and nod of knowing what i'm like when i do that thing i do, these sweet stickly lips half grin into a shared inside joke with my own id. ed. dead. time for a shake of a brush off and a tuck away and i'll lie awake thinking of what is on the other side of the window.
we walk away and turn around three times, tuck tails between legs and  make excuses for why six months to a year to maybe more it is ok to be silent, because when we are not.. it means something.  i ask to sleep in late to dream in black and white to scramble brains and eggs in a hot pan pillow and maybe something will change..
i could take a pill.
i could find another thrill,
but then i'd not wake up to the musings of a banana spider sucking on my left toe.  shifty, lessly, lucy, rushi, ruu.. something about newspaper tucked under a pg tip makes me think back to thoughts of a
different colour, scent error.. nag champa that i can't burn less i'm alone in the apple tree.. this tightens. this binds, this is a kind of corset for  a reset button refrain, killer klowns from outer space lurk in my queue and i've tomorrow off..
it really is too bad that i can't shake this sleep....
so instead i'll sew a felt bunny
i'll write out half a name,
i'll make soap that smells like me, to keep things consistant.. diet cola,
giagantor says:
i knead a cola...

tap pad burn out

p>so i slip away sometimes, to know where that special space between absence and existance where flowers bloom in mid morning rain.  i clicked out over and away. i waited a week and repeated my pattern, i skipped to beats i forgot, i hummed to playlists i didn't want, shuhhshhsshhh... he says and wants to give me a fix.

i don't drink in the night air..
i want a fag, hand rolled by the boys in the pub... give me an owl dressed in tile and i'll show you a vinyl candleabra ready for a wall sticking.  fuck. it stuck

happened with a foot crack slap me right on my keister, fuckall'd and benched.  didn't even make it through the prelims cause das uber boot  has me walking stiff and un skated.  dahsn't matter though, i'll pick it back up, i feel the sunset as you know and watch as my status change hits a cloroform high note and trickles back into nothing. 

if i'm to be naughty, tonight is the night. shining armour and armoir and good lord that was a nice kick.  can't go central like, but they're thinking bout shipping me out to memphis.  i like that idea... cause then it will be easier to break my heart.  till then i'll play a list of milky way obsession and finger the catastrophic rain fall, cross my eyes, kiss the ground the snake slithered on and hope for a toodlepiphardkick from who ever holds on tight enough to snap crackle and pop me a new one.  new line.
sin a muh.

sugar in an embryo

waited away till it was too late to do anything.
let the battery die so if someone had slipped through they'd get in touch with nothing.
pulled the covers over my head and sighed myself through half sleeps odd dreams and the one off of a cat bite wake up silly girl hellno...
my alarm blended in with the song stuck in my head, i was trying to remember you.
i was trying to forget to breathe, i wanted to send a postcard from this bed, proving that i'd been living through another day another window frame and the clothes piled up in my cat bed had nothing to do with my state of mind. i didn't even turn on my mid july space heater. just thought about the way that kisses feel like hard kicks when memory serves them on that silver flecked platter. secret handshakes i never learned, things forgotten in the womb six months before memory serves of a slapped ass inhale. a secret i carried around, revealed then melted away, shushed in that predawn halo.
twist. snap. rub off.
i crept from my cottony cacoon, brushed errant hairs from my face, let my feet search for the floor  and stretch, that first crick of twenty six hits me like a whisper and somewhere down the hall a cat sings for my breakfast. skipped to my in lieu of darling, heart beats boiling in a teapot, two sugars and milk-pg tipped and sniffed out deflated balloons from  the secret work slip away, but that was all my morning time before the spoon hit the cup side bowl bottom..

find my day,

mostly uneventful, mostly hushed, mostly stolen glances in my head...
today i guessed a gauge and rolled the thought over my gray matter throughout the lunchaway.

twenty years of sleep before we sleep forever.
i've got leg up on making my eternal

blanket....just rags now,

 

till they're figured out forever, and measured out to the fifth degree, i can't wait for our wrap up..

 

 

dreaming of a neighbor

i stretch out the finger tips to reach into morning light.
she will not submit to my last moment attempts at hanging on to a dreamsleep that i sometimes forget i should leave behind.  the black and whites come into focus, the smear of lipstain across my arm tells me  i need to wash up behind my ears before bed time, but that glow
the want of a september walk,
the kiss of an unknown whisper,
the memory of the things most likely better off dead or behind a locked door, second story stylised for your protection-defection, submit infection?
only of a word virus.
it's not like mono so i'll share my tea with the boy with no name..he'll tell me all the snapses are firing in the right order, and we'll sit under dusty lampposts while a symphony of violins sings on about death and lying about it,  and i'll dream...and morning tickles my handshake with a bite...
she moves to fast into the afternoon hours, she took a glance side ways before rolling over, it's time to watch the sheets tumble to the floor piled up...
i want to whisper for time to slow up some, listen to the tick tick tick skip tick of my four dollar alarm clock, feel the lightness of midspace..i don't want to leave my mindspace..
i can see us there, in multiples of three, in prime, in 10010, i hear your voice over a too old radio... everything seems just above,
just below
my fingertips can't manage this force up,

i yawn sigh awake. realisations come in full on. chips and egg.

he doesn't want it, but he just won't let it go.
she started breaking but she just won't let it show.

inhale ten ae em.
sheep counting is a life time away.

one more night

the end should be a good one.
no rain clouds to trickle down and romanticize the tears that come with the bitten lip.  it's past thoughts, it's the what if's, its life happening and facing mortality and skipping stones on the street corners to go stage right to a broken lamppost. maybe it's because there is a week left till i'm on the other side. i want to gain it all, i want to break it all, i want to lose it all, and i want someone to build us back up again in the hallway between shuffle steps..

i start with your voice, i imagine sounds on a record player, i close my eyes and i sing about one more night and blend into fiction..i feel something hot on a cheek and imagine a half kiss before i realize -
i am alone, and that sense of someone lingers on and it holds me close and i fast forward through the songs that tickle unreality beneath my toes, and i make up my own lyrics when the buttons don't work quick like..  how dreams hold me to that space...  how does the past kick me to the juice box of an infinite equation,
just leave the light on for me.

my thoughts have been creeping backwards, to that place that lies behind a glass wall, shrouded in sunset and stormy skies...L.L.L i can't roll it off my tongue..i light a candle, i focus away, i try to forget,  or at least remember or attempt to understand why things affect me so.  there are parts of my life i cannot bin. so i draw the shades for my windowed soul and trace ripples in water, and hum as my cover up of the past comes smooth and sure and it's about time for bright colours in the hen house...i learned a trick or two.. i painted an image, i held on to the spirit.. i watched as broken french flashed across my screen and my mind clicked on a tab alt. click. 
i'm better than i was, i'm different than i am... i touch my toes and count to ten before spinning off to the horizon...  i never needed a saviour, i only needed my rollerskates to help me round the rink a few times... i want to say somethings i never could before...thinks i never dared before...

i want to wake up next to you.

one more night, that was a good one.

popped

after a loss of great measure, not sure if i can stomach it again..
shortened version of literary ineptitude, once many pages, never duplicated now made into a mish mash of word virus...spread it to the tenth degree...

last night it finally happened
nearly two hours of sweat dripping, slash dancing,  rink skipping, ball busting glory..
we'd barely enough for an equal divide,
but the block checks came strong and solid from my end..

flesh collides sweat flings and after a second of adrenal glad spasms hipcheek meets rink meat, rib cage to slide along with the wrist gaurd on the back down force her out.. get up get up lets go, catch up schrodinger, faster go go go...
sweet stinging on my left leg, rust taste in my mouth hot and heavy we kept on going, till the bout was called and scores met.. count down un duex trois and sip away, taste the cut lip and finger the fresh sign of derby dolldom...fishnet burn... my first.   somewhat sexy in circles of pain, caused by rink floor sticking to skin and slide on .. falling proper like can cause it... but i need new pads all the same
first time sweet and stinging..
i love it so.
it has become more than competition now..
i block. i skate. and if i hold my breath and count to ten i just might make it through the next lap,
i'll take the world with me, i'm not afraid, i'll take them all down if it means not letting the whites through...
bad girls sleep over. bad girls take over. it's all apart of the sisterhood of the bcdg...
   i've found my skates, it's become about inspiration...
spin of eh?

bugs in the hizzouse

i think i only write in months with j.
ever since my neverending necropheilia with a dead web blog, origination of services and something of an ejaculatory nature in french commenting, i am a bit skiffy.
all is starting to go round about and i need to charge my forbidden love of a nano.  work things. gah. didn't get fired after that absence of a sort actually got promoted.. twice in two weeks  and i go what game haven't i been playing for the last coupla years. oy. and a vey and a smack to the dab in the middle of you.  so listen up charlies and sams, for this same day delivery, my cat stole my name, so i stole her species. strike fear into the hearts of masses on the BCDG nothing like a somewhat cerebral hat tipping to become an elitist bitch in a moment of escape.. but to be honest, all the good names were taken.. like tamsters-shit she's beaver cleaver. thats not topped.
not even with whipped cream.
off tho. missed cheapskate.
gotta tango tangle. 
coke zero is snapping it's fingers at lucy and all i can say to that is,

all i know is, the barn was gone in the morning.

good thing tho, i finally got my custom cup cake.  it smells like fruit gummies.

time to be a bad cat..
i lost my box.

grey, with a spot of afternoon

afternoon, still stuffing tissue up my nose and wondering when the cipro will start marking improvement, at this rate i'll be barely able to speak by monday which will not bode well for my followupping.. 
so between the posts an post nots, i blinked twice and was awed.. so much the boiling water in my teacup has left me a mark meant for madness and my sketchbook now has "personality". but not so much as my giggle out loud tea cough... i found it whilst looking through a best photoshopped of contest, and in my drug haze i couldn't figure out how to vote, so i did the next best thing.. ohhh the thievery! mr.nic would be proud.
in other news, i've roller derby practice monday.. yes.. derby, of the rollllsssssuhhhh! yes, what this means is i'll need a full tank of gas, crossed fingers that my schedule hasn't changed and a few playlists for the journey.. twice weekly a two hour tour, to sit right back and start skating some tail... if only the local crackwhores here could skate.. if i could build it perhaps they would come? in due time yes... in due time.....
i've my eyes set on some goodness gracious gracy goodnight moon things  and i managed a tickle me elmo rational with my financial aide advisor, we'll see.. so far it is good standing...so far it is sooo good. so far i've still got rocks in my socks and too much time on my hands, perhaps i'll start kipping, and clicking and bah to that bag i'll work on my purls of great price.
afternoon,
watering can, i've two...

trouble with evening tides

sitting here, creeping up on midnight, between drawing things with words and speaking with d, *s,wink, nod* i find myself listening too much to a fifth of futurama and wondering what tomorrow means.

i found this..sounds like grandmum and have been tickeled since, i've put adult swim on mute and started scouring my files for anything speckled in black white and grey, anything at all, i'm scrambling over my brain folds for signs of past go and shakink ze shinkin...

the head rolls back clicks into reverb and watches in awe as the clock ticks away and i think about streetlamppost longings and parkbenches and, i return to class on the thirty first... a long time coming..i return to work monday...much needed, and will return to central someday
once these dreams stop clicking on rewind and fastforward without my sense of direction...for now tho, i'll return to black and white bumps and ponder more on sock monkey vs garden gnome..

love me?

story of a

i got stuck in this space between the ex rays and the high beams, plan lines plot lines
but i can't stop coughing it up..choking it down,
and i've nothing but photographs to mention worth or less than more than sms pole dancing at night..
it is strange to see your head, metal pinned L above the left socket, and to listen to confirmations of cough choke sputter three weeks isn't a long time to take double dosing at twelve hours,
...it is here that i think, i miss my kitchen....i miss my view... i miss my walls... i miss... the shutterclick.
.. speaking in tongues with my mum, she stood in a doorway accusatory style, because she hasn't seen photographs of the places i've been, because she hasn't heard the hushed undertones in the stories i've told, because she thinks that i spent all my times locked up and away in those attics...no proof of life...
if it's not in frame it doesn't exsist
a lazy eye once told me i place too much of a place in people, that i allow them to make the scenes i see... i started thinking, over again, one too many times really, that i've no fault in that connection, places are places with energies, laylines, geographic curses and crutches, language barriers and what makes me miss prague so? the connections i had whilst there, the ones that have gone since i've been back here... the fingerless security gaurd in the smoky pub, the students in the globe, the woman behind the paint counter, the waves of strangers shuffling muddied and broken through the basement of tesco, the strange turkish man with a matching cat and a saved toothbrush, the oh so far away conversations with that secretive lazy eyed stranger, expansion sets of youses, the shop keeps that yelled for me to go home... a list, could go on more... but i've realized i have little interest in physical slopes and status and the odes to commerce, and it is not entirely a bad thing.. too much in people, too much in creating spaces, making my own... tickling that underbelly that no one will mark up in a scrap book of travels...once again-i was right, and refused to trust my own judgement.
..
i started the application process, twenty seven months, in twelve months. peace corps. nerves are slicing themselves against my dented cranium.. i worry that they'll look too deep into my fuckupdoutmistakes and i never gave enough or did enough or just surviving at times could never be enough because i lack commitment..
a known .. a given.. my pops stood in my door way and smiled as i inhaled vapoured air,
we were trying to find my path..
we were trying to find what i'll do best at....you can do everything, you're good at everything you do, but you lack commitment...
what did you want to do when you were 10? be a doctor. why? i wanted to help people, and not have anyone question my intellect. they would KNOW i was a thinker. for status then....what about when you were 5? a doctor. and the president of the united states. when you were 13? a writer. when you were 17? i just wanted to make it through the year...but i thought i ought to be a doctor...when you were 21? i just wanted to make it through the days, i still wanted to be a doc but knew i had screwed up too many times..when you were 17? a doctor. when you were 21? a doctor.
i know he was making a point, but i am fairly sure i am too late...
so here i go.
application.
...
filler bunny: i'm joining the roller derby.
not because of that show. but because i am finally well enough to skate.
health.
it scares me.
.

the disintigration of wet ciggarettes

its past bed time,
or before i am not so sure anymore, but disintegration is everywhere.
the wire broke. again. and i joined a few sites.such a word whore to be battered and abused by decrepit has beens and pot smoking teenagers.i hope this doesn’t push me over.tho this time alone is doing wonders for my sanity.
i am seeing ghosts, becoming less paranoid, and losing weight, must come with losing my mind. still its nice to know that sometimes i am not alone.
but i am
work late
sleep late, fuck.
i have to find a way to get myself out of this cyclone. i will. and i will still be at the same local. same attic, but different liveslines crossed.the hurricanes have all but obliterated any sort of life i had to go back to. i am sure someone will tell me that’s a sign.and someone will call me dear friend.but will anyone tell me i love you? nah, that’s for the cards and sappy romance movies, things like that happen in real life but you have to pay dearly sever your arm to gain a good lay.i have been thinking about money making, site design, of course, affilates of course, and then there is suicide girls. everyone thinks i should do it. glorification, sublimination, fantasy, beauty, i would finally be one thing possesed by another time place that i never thought i would be.
and i suppose that is where glamour starts.and for the first time in nine months i must say with all this disintegration i need a cigarette...
..
its becoming a habit.
drinking double espressos round 6 pm.
i only wish it were real.
not the habit. the espresso. nescafe has come up with paper envelopes cylindrical, cynical. INSTANT.keeping me from shaving my head.not really. but dive bomb to coffee grounds that can't be swept up and away.
much like the missonaries that boxed me in tram number 8.
i pretended not to speak german (i don't)
i pretended not to speak french (i don't)
i pretended not to speak english (i don't)
i pretended to be japanese. and that worked.
they are coming to get me barbara, pub es sent... from the beehive land of zion, temples on every street trying to seal you upcause they want to get you on their list.and the poor man in front of me didn't know and the spoke, and traded pamphlets and when bellvue came up i said excuse me and forgot that they thought i couldn't wouldn't understand..
so i ran away.
and i know
tomorrow they
willring.
...