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all dreams, as they do,
turn to dust
sifting through the hourglass
should have struck whilst
the iron was hot
no longer
no longer young
no longer a chance in hell
hell never had a chance
poured salt in hope
knowing to never again.
i walked back in to my house, my home, today. the same house that i’ve lived in for most of my conscious life (sure, i have memories from the very first house i lived in but they are blurry as hell) and i got oddly wistful over it. see, it’s been a long time since i’ve walked in from the garden…near enough a year i guess as i don’t really have to cause to go into the garden during the winter months. it’s a strange view. strange insofar that i see it so infrequently and strange because it brought back a lot of stuff. stuff that made me smile. like kicking a ball up against the back wall by myself, spray painting the cd covers for one of my old bands releases with the drummer, my mum out there gardening and ever trying to make it look presentable, the time we cut down a tree and it keeled over into the neighbours garden by accident and could have killed someone easily. not that we got on with those neighbours so it’s fine. odd memories that i needn’t remember. they have no use…no purpose. all linked to that garden. all stemming from that one initial burst…like an impact and the subsequent cracks crazing across glass all emanating ultimately from that first shock. like seeing a heron perched on top of a fir tree (not the same tree…don’t you worry), playing football by myself and pretending i could be great (and i’d been told i had potential. true fact), or that time i was playing with my dad and i come way out of the goal, we scuffled, the ball popped out, closer to my dad than i and with the goal wide open, needing to hit quick and with force so it was, hooned at the goal and me diving for it like it really really mattered, it hitting me square in the chest and full on winding me. the concern and then the laughter that followed when it turned out i was fine. somehow games, trivial shit seemed to matter back then.
i guess i’m getting wistful because, one way or another, i won’t be living here much longer. that’s either my choice or someone else’s (in many manners of speaking) but that’s neither here nor there. another story. i’ve lived here nearly 20 years, a lot of history and none of which that will get written down in books but history that was important to me nonetheless. i’ve had some good memories, some incredible ones and some utterly fucking terrible ones formed whilst i’ve lived here and they’ve shaped who i am. for better or worse. i’m still becoming but for the most part, the me that courses through my veins, shapes my chances, success’, failures and futures, it exists because of this place. true my parents would have still raised me the same, but the people i’ve met, the education i had, the sights and the sounds…they all came about because of this house and where it stands. sometimes i wonder what i’d be like if i’d lived somewhere else, moved about more, stuff like that…would i feel any happier…would there actually be a place that i found to fit in….stuff like that…but that’s all guesswork.
truthfully though, i’m kind of scared to leave. i’ve never been great with new experiences. i get tense, worry, slip up, keep quiet, avoid them for the most part. i’ve got comfortable here even though at points i could not have felt worse and wanted to leave desperately. other times i’ve just been plain bored of the same shit over and over and wanting for something new. i’m stupid like that. a contradiction; don’t like repetition (get bored) but don’t like new (get scared). but i am leaving here now. no two ways about it. if it comes to it, it won’t be my choice anyway like i said. i should be glad to leave, and i am because this has been building up in me for years now, but i am sad to leave in a way too. and i didn’t expect that and normally when you want to leave due to your own compunction it’s because you’re glad to see the back of somewhere or someone or something and there is no sadness or regret but oddly, oddly, it was the back of my house that made me realise i will be sad to leave here after all…
i still remember the dreams i had, when i was guiding you round a shopping centre. but then i’d lose you and frantically search for you in some building without solid form, ever changing architecture that meant i couldn’t ever quite make sense of where i was and how i might find you, escher’s “relativity” in dream, collapsing, spiralling, confusing and trapping and waking. waking. knowing that you were confused and lost. knowing that i was supposed to be there to stop that and i didn’t. i didn’t do right. but knowing that you were still alive. that i could still help. that i could make amends. the solid relief of that fact. until i were awake enough to realise that it was all just a dream. to know that i would still never see you again. that i could never make up for not being good enough when you were alive. and i’m sat here listening to a song over and over that i haven’t listened to since i was having those dreams and it still makes me cry every time. trapped in my room, no way out, record on repeat, it’s over.
i’m sorry.
every lie you ever fed me
i swallowed whole
and hoped this was my way
out
avoiding the reality
and forgetting
that nothing good
ever comes of anything.
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truth isn’t beauty
it’s a slap in the face
the sickening realisation
that it’s all pointless
that you’re worthless
that hoping for anything more
than shit
is pure fucking futility
trying to drag yourself
through the day
knowing the waste
knowing there won’t be any sleep
knowing that there is nothing
crushing black, depth
vicissitudes
that tighten the chest
knowing that everyone
will only ever
let
you
down
that everything falters
and tumbles
and hollows
and leavens
and bursts
and tell me,
what is beautiful
about that?
it’s hard not to think that if i were to die today
no-one would realise for months on months
til i were bent out of recognition
by decay and dirt
which is not too far off the mark for what i suffer
even now
blank
chopping blocks not even for my fire
breaking back
smashed hand that barely holds any more
to not make a dent
that as well must have been what i was set down to do
never register
never feel anything other than anguish
stinging black lungs
tightening chest
intense fucking hatred for a world that ruined me
gnashing
slavering for faults
scrambling up greased walls
to never fit
to never feel home
to always resent
to always know there was never a chance
i can see that room already
bare, nothing achieved, nothing furnished
hollow, bleak, haggard
glime, grabbid burn walls
raped of hope
no out
no in
(even better,
that was always the worst mistake)
pure stench, pure radge
hell
solaris
reeking and burning pure havoc
through me
intense fucking hatred
all muscle compound
clenched
ready to tear
burn, break, shatter
snare, shout
quake…
one day i’ll be free
and i won’t even know it,
one day i’ll hit a slump
and never look back,
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can you begin to understand this feeling
these vultures, clawing at the neck
whispering sweet nothings
sleep through the winter
these troughs are close enough killing
can you feel it
tearing through the spine
claiming this hell you’ve made your own
these tongues all taste the same
and i’ve nothing left to say.
fuck eloquence
i want st-t-t-uttering imcomprehension
shards of ululation and shouts of awe
i need fragments of inexpression
and clawing at what makes something perfect
an archaeology of the sublime
and one that is not complete
because, i guess when we can’t fully
express ourselves
even when we want to
that’s when it really counts…
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