untapped texts ache my skinny fingers and my back is a cracked mess
my muse is a twat i once met, so often
grinding feelings need an outlet
and i’m the flour between stones, it’s not foolish because it’s not something i think about
it’s bondage around my innards,
it’s a grasping feeling of loss that is so resilient and wiry and it’s all strung up inside me and it worms around with hooks that rip my muscles and it spreads my feelings thin
i have to look through a ragged pinhole, the sides are so heavy and i’m tired
I’ve been in a bad mood in some really beautiful places.
The scene inside unshakeable.
My legs swung forward from the hip. I was agile. I didn’t feel the familiar and expected groaning of my calves, instead I felt happily strong and capable. I flew across the landscape without tortured breath or heaviness and I felt free.
I crawled round the house in the semi-darkness, resting often from the labour. I sighed as I plugged back in.
Looking around with alert bright eyes, I clenched my fists as I looked over across the small settlement. I climbed down from my vantage point.
Shanty buildings with a shiny sheen greeted my eye. A cliché in a chequered dress swept up pointlessly outside the cartoonish inn doors. A wind passed through as if to better animate the scene for my benefit and it tousled the cliché’s hair and gently parted the doors to the saloon. A ridiculous tumble weed crept just past her feet and she looked up to give me an empty smile.
I looked around to see if any other characters populated the area. There were none, so I walked my ridiculous cowboy walk over to the chequered caricature. Before she or I could speak I unwillingly tipped my ridiculous hat.
The sun beat down on my dirty face and it was the first time I’d felt truly uncomfortable there, as I prepared myself for speech. I wished her a good afternoon without incident and she gave me a “Howdy stranger, welcome to The Slanted Gran” in return. The name of the place appeared in my view and I felt an endorphin boost as if I’d achieved something, simply by “discovering” this new territory. Her mouth shaped the words so distinctly, with such purpose. Her eyes remained dim. She smiled at me blankly while I chose what to say.
She didn’t seem to notice I was a woman in typically masculine attire, despite the apparent time period, she didn’t seem to notice a lot. She just goofily grinned at me, her windswept hair moving in unnatural, lagging fragments.
When I write things from memory – Fresh
It weighs on me, to remember how I so regularly felt,
Straight from my real memory, I lose that step of distance between me and it.
Rather than me reading what I wrote then, and copying it down all studious,
I’m there in the awful moment where trauma put it’s foot down.
The gentle breath of digital cogs wheels me on, whirrs me into so-called productivity.
It’s the hardware really, I work with an old, well-used machine.
My feed is not an echo chamber – sometimes there are things there that make me sad and ashamed. I can’t always engage because I don’t have all the time in the world.
The hostility that might meet me would drain me of my life blood.
The electric runs through these wires, provides a receptacle and a dispenser for hate that’s displayed in my screen – I read it, my eyes take it into my heart and I learn again the state of the world and what we’re dealing with.
A bloody tradition defended so viciously by people who are made of delicate flesh and bone.
Why do you, a creature of blood, yearn for the spilling of an innocent?
Why do you defend the cruelty of those that would tear you apart if you were in a different body?
Tight metal joints
I crawled through
thorns to be with me
Heart muscle ribbons
flutter in the wind
My eyes catch the light,
it’s rays jut through my brain,
decorate my perception
I unfold my limbs and glide onward
A tiring limpness tempers me, I glide onward.
It’s not that far away but the whirr of the train tires me, the noise of the crowd, tickets, barriers, rush, the thought of the drunken tits on the way back, it tires me. Second quick train – the wait, the seeking out orange numbers on light up boards, following rows, “Is that mine?” “Which platform?”
So that when I get to you, all I can do is rest, rest in your arms and worry about the way back.