evening waves

Evening waves,

tell the most beautiful of tales.

 

Electronic

grid-like fluctuations,

jittering trepidation:

 

waves,

 

lulling

each other out of and back to

incandescent

sleep.

 

Murky mercury

hiding under slick

silver.

These

glowing

pre-pubescent hills,

too scared to expand,

hence, retract,

push back.

 

Suddenly with a playful,

almost knowing

glint,

they change their mind,

and roll forwards,

loll their head back,

with hair that

sprinkles baritone

hums

down the ocean’s spine.

 

Hums of

an unrecognizable

tale;

just like the tide,

it spirals out of its

shell as rapidly as it

scurries back

behind a

wave’s swish

of a gown,

hiding their blooming

flourishing

cheeks:

 

ready to exhale

salty relief.

 

And if the tide

subsides

and if

the waves

turn sleepy,

eyelids folding over the shore

with what seems

like

infinite

patience,

 

then, humans lean

over. Look closer,

and in this miracle,

they see

featherlight depictions

of who they dream

to be:

sensual figures

skate alongside

waves,

ever morphing

ever merging,

becoming one.

 

For that second,

life seems a bit more

mystical.

capsize

I can’t muster up,

roll up,

a compendium of courage

just enough

to balance onto this string,

so i’m always on

tiptoes,

either grappling for gravity

or

floating (so high I can’t feel my fingers)

 

teach me these few

things, how not to:

clip fingernails to

split knives, then try to trace my face

or smash teacups

because the house has

ceased to whisper (i can’t stand silence)

or scorch the tips of pencils

when words stay hanging below my throat,

limply,

refusing to move any

farther onto paper

 

sometimes,

if my mind eases on the accelerator,

i’ll make sure to

stand under a storm

and hope for lightning

i’ll have my hands full of

plasma coalesced into electricity

(so blue it could burn your eyes)

at least there’s this

effervescence,

i may say,

that I can dissect,

squint into,

pick and fiddle with

like an old toy

made out of unknown

mechanisms

 

my life is a time bomb

and i’m running away from

the silence between each tick

tick

tick.

from feeling like

an empty hotel room with

undone beds.

don’t leave me vacant,

 

 

I’d rather capsize a boat

than have it float

sparkling water

Frizzling,

sparkling water

effervescent

trepidation

on the edge

of serenity

 

capsules of gas

clumped up like

clams

coating the bottle’s

edges

 

a few brave ones

push off

shoot off

towards the glimmering

exit sign.

the portal to the

external

breathing world.

 

they start off

timidly advancing

upwards,

trembling,

trying to justify their

actions,

then…

pop!

off they go

hitting the water

surface,

and disappearing

with a glint

 

a cry for freedom

from the ones left

behind as you

close the bottle

not like in the movies

it wasn’t a spark

it was nothing so romantic

but it kept our hearts

squealing

beating

silently

languidly

under each other’s

fingernails

 

and it licks my lips close

and tickles my teeth.

Ungraspable-

i want to be able

to look past your eyes

catch whispers of ramblings

as you skip two steps

or catch your breath

and hold it in for a second too long-

what do you think of then?

 

i’ll spill out my fears

splay them out on the table

like cards,

shards of my nonsensical mind,

you can pick what you want

or just rip them all in halves or quarters.

 

and this heart can’t expect,

but here I am;

 

and I want to know

how your lashes cut like

the edge of a waning crescent

or maybe how they feel on my skin

after a shower,

 

or count the times you’ve

mumbled velleities about how

you don’t like your freckles

on the seams of

your cheeks

 

and everyday

we’ll stretch like a

spring

bounce back

retract

come back

 

it won’t be perfection

more like a dissection

of this affection

(p.s and that’s what i love about it)

 

 

my pill

you know something

that annoys me

about me

I’m not saying this for

self victimisation

that fixation

away from stagnation

oh look,

my catchphrase

through the haze

 

anyways

sometimes,

maybe always,

i find cuts beautiful

i find blood beautiful

i find gushing wounds fascinating

like a scientist

i’ll sprinkle salt on top

oh look its bubbling

shining

heat is produced

i guess i just turned on the engine?

 

i find suffering exquisite

something romantic

something perfect

something strong and bold and

confident,

like what i am not,

 

let me give you an equation,

to create

is to suffer

to suffer is to create

I’m bleeding so i must create

something of the mystical

sophistical

 

being happy is completely useless

i need a stab

to react

i need toxicity

like a pill

 

I’m addicted

convicted

 

 

 

i think it’s broken

I think it’s broken.

I mean,

on the outside

my hands glide

over shimmering

shiny polished to

perfection

steel,

and I mean,

the engine runs well

quite swell.

it’s ready to take flight

you may think

I’m quite right

 

open the door;

it’s

deconstructed

words

thorned berries

sharp sounds of

syllables,

unwanted.

Haunted

crying

mumbling

stumbling

over wires

in puddles

scratched knuckles

electrocute me

maybe i’ll be free

 

and maybe you’ll

get past all that

but oh honey

how funny.

pass the haze

and it’s

numbers

static numbers-

piling over numbers

climbing over

calculator tiles

for miles

counting

the crumbs i had

for breakfast

and lunch

and dinner

and yesterday’s meals

and hell maybe last

week

and ill label that

biscuit i hid in the pocket

behind the dinner table,

crushed by my boot

because it wasn’t on the

timetable

 

and at the very back

on the walls,

i’ll have beautiful angels

with

red halos

carved on to

shadows of my

thoughts-

they just love picking at

the light and

dimming it, just slightly,

politely

“don’t take it personally,

but I might just,

since I must,

combust this

lust for joy”

and i’ll bow down to

that

bow down to claws

that clench over

something bright,

ill give in to the dark,

the pain

let me drain into the sink,

 

sometimes i enjoy it

 

i just might

idealism, imagination, exaggeration

so, everytime i write on here in Times New Roman, I feel like I’m talking to a therapist, and I am, in fact my own therapist. I remember the TV show where the patient falls in love with their therapist, unluckily this cannot happen with me (though I so very wish for it, and I wonder how it feels like to love oneself). However, that is a topic for another talk and it’s quite a long winding road.

I’m here today to talk about (not embrace, but maybe a little bit) my overly active imagination and idealism. I don’t know whether I cherish or hate it. This is because on one hand, it’s spurred me on to creating something of the eerie or beautiful, on the other hand, it has had my heart forget it’s job so I’m sort of left there, hanging, with a hammer planted into my chest. It’s like expecting someone to pick you up on the road and you wait thirty minutes – well they must have been late, there was traffic- and an hour slips to four hours and you fall asleep on the bench you were waiting on. The end of the story is, that it never comes, this relief of the person coming for you  (relief that my heart muscle will set me free and stop jittering like a puppy). idealism is a nice concept, it even sounds sophisticated, something that rich educated teenagers use in poems, and to me it’s borderline stuff of nightmares and borderline majestic. It makes you feel grandiose because in that little skull of yours, everything is going the way it is- you’re running the show, honey. so the kiss you wanted landed just right on your lips and that second glance definitely meant more. but in the real world you’re not even sure you have lips to receive that kiss and maybe your lover is looking to the left and not at you. but that’s okay because then you suffer and this little bitch here enjoys the feeling of jumping ten feet stories high or simply dark things you find behind corners. but that’s all okay also because at least i’ll follow the trail of sadness/self victimisation/disappointment(mostly) and bunch it all together and this so called thing/ “art” comes out. and my teacher always says my work looks like anger, I say yes and it’s not anger towards the one or the world that didn’t follow my script, but it’s anger towards myself for making a script in the first place. sometimes i wonder what it feels like to pluck out all my teeth or cut my thighs in front of my lover so that i could simply write about it. this all stems from me just wanting all moments in life to be intense and life-changing and soul-grasping and I can’t stand the ordinary. I don’t want contentment, I want bliss. I don’t want neutral, I want pain or sorrow. I want it all to the extreme and I’ll never be able to stand in the middle of a capsizing boat.

ps. words you say will probably be tattooed on my eyelids

(i like feeling a lot so i don’t know where im going. and change seems scary and weird and uncomfortable and BORING)