Can you see in the dark?

It’s so fucking scary.  There is a gulf into which most pure things fall.  There is the filter of desperation.

There’s the swimming pool at night without  a ripple, don’t be fooled.

the heck with lunch

There are these snowy clouds, sweeping in on a tuft of wind.  The lush absence to everything,  a pure and gentle white.  It’s grimier in its romance than night.  The worn way of the earth matches your own bones in their aches.

The only way to hurt depression is sort of to sink into it.  I find myself looking for ways to handle time purely, organically.  Perhaps it isn’t depression.  Isn’t it odd, in primary school I was apparently the boy who always smiled.  Always, according to everyone.

I’m fairly okay in company, but leave me alone lately and I go to pieces.  I realised I’m also a sort of perfectionist in EVERYTHING.  We have these little play sessions on a Saturday, I just had one. Recently I’ve been drawing, and I won’t just draw fruit and scribbles and things It has to all be ornate and detailed and nice looking.  I copy images from books (quite well, even) hoping it will improve my skill/memory for it.  

So in these play sessions, I have to get everything perfect.  Every line or gluestroke.  It’s horrible, but I have to make something beautiful.  Music’s the one thing where I no longer care because it seems to pour out, so I can much more easily let go and go with the flow, sow to speak.  Completely uncare about what I’m playing, so long as I can feel it.  Also, there’s no permanence to it, the songs and notes linger in only in the imagination.

It’s no big . . .

I’m drowning all over the place, but the boat can take you by surprise as well.  I wonder if it’s like this for everyone, I don’t know, I’d be surprised.

Lullaby for daytime

I stiffen to think I’d

hold a mirror to light,

 and hold your hand to ransom.

I’ll ask to learn to breathe

in the hard walking light,

well misery loves beauty

and I’m shifting slow words

by my closed eyes.

Britney found me a girl to fight

and that’s in fun,

She talks like a car crash,

I;d take her down, but I might not.

 

Some might say darling

in time to shadows

that eyes make,

Some sing about

death but I’m not

ready.

 

when I meet them I’m

not talking for hours,

my eyes will bob like lungs

 

and I can’t face the evening straight,

You always offer me escape

a Chorus without a verse

 

It’s a saddened sort of sighing sound,

a winter bell, and then you’re off the ground

Sometimes you just need to fall asleep

and wake up in the stiff, cool library

boys don’t talk about their stuff

everything spins,
the parts of you
picked up

I’ve decided to hell
with calling the
future mine
to waltz from
 
I’ll fling instead with toes
in the hot sand
buried, alive

so fades
any assurance
I find myself pressing lips to

It’s not hard to exhale
in the tide’s backsliding,
that I don’t love you
confused and rotten,

and nothing is safe
and I know what it means now