communication by voicelanguagefadesthroughout meworking uptowards the starsdelving deepbeneath the wavesone word in mineis another in yourswe don't translatequite equallywe make compromisesthe jigsawis a little haphazardbut isgenerallydecentbut the wordsslide off your tongueso easilywhereas mineare harshabrasivethey burn my earsyet you arecontent to listen.
untitled 101we don't make lovegracefullywe're all elbowsand kneesbut when our eyesmeetand our breathsminglewe are wonderfulwe are perfectwe are meant to be.
ever freei don't hideand it's spelt with a lowercase 'h'i didn't die cryingi died laughinga joke! a mistake!a drunken endeavour!a 'this'll make them laugh'not a 'this'll show them all'i write -exucse mei wrotebeautiful thingsi madelittle girls weepi had it alli lost it allin a brightly littokyo bathroomlaughing -hysterically
curesi've not been feelingthat greatas of late.i've been lyingnakedin roomsstretching againstthe leather couchesin the living roomandstaring intentlyinto the open firesin the hopes ofinspiringsome kind offeelingwithin me.i don't meanto be soangst riddenit's just the waythings gothe waythe water flowsdownstreaminstead ofupstream.butthe leatherthat sticksagainst my skinandthe flamesthat burn my eyesdon't really helpat all.
one memory for a strewn paththis pathleading towardsmy brainseems strewnwith memoriesand notone of themis of youexceptby saying thisi have nowcreated oneit is with thedappled sunlightcast uponyour facethat you glancemeaninglesslyat menottowards meorin any waythat would conveya type ofacknoledgmentof existencebut thisis my memoryof you.
alonei'm getting sick of thisof sitting silentlyalone in my ownfestering miseryi cannotbe alone foreversurely?someonemust care for mei will notsit hereuntil deathand simply feelalonethe peoplethat i once professedto be loved onesare fadingaway intotheir own worldstheir own livesand leaving mealonesomeonemust care.* written for an experimental film
fergusonFerguson played the bass guitar.He liked to think that he could play like it really meant something, as if with each note he gave someone's life meaning. He would make believe that people would stop in the street and stare up towards the small and only window in his bedroom. They would listen intently, mouths cast open slightly, as he plucked note after note of sheer bliss.Ferguson had good looks. His hair colour came from a bottle of cheap dye, and his clothes came from thrift stores, but he was the embodiment of coolness, of tall, dark and handsome. Except his hair was red, and not brunette. When he sat on buses, with the volume on his CD player turned up full, just so that everyone could hear what he was listening to, he imagined that he was the one the old ladies were whispering about. He smirked in a slightly self righteous way when people stared at him in the streets, and walked with an exaggerated saunter that was very hard to pull off when drunk.His friends were not really f
simplicityi would like to give upthis wonderfully sober lifethat i livei sorely hopethat one dayi will be ableto simplylet it all goi need to sit downtake a deep breathand thenrelease itin a never ending screami am free now.