i like you reckless, twin danger grins and some stolen soundtrack to aching limbs. this is potentiality, dream state, car chases and everything that a secret agent like me wanted from birth. there's something here, something real and feverhot that deserves exploiting.

i like you reckless,

and i like you alive

bonfire triplicate

i could explode. i could snap right out of my skin.

like athena out of her father's head.

the night's dark. the word's are bleak and all i can hear is a dull thundering, a bleeding bass and all i can taste is dull thundering, a bleeding bass.

you'd think i'd have worked this out by now, learned how to play the game the way i threatened to,like the competitive long streak of piss i told you i was. like the competitive long streak of piss you are. shimmering, stinking, searing.

halfway up the stairs, halfway out of my mind, halfway round the world, you've got it all worked out, and i could explode. i could explode and take you with me.

there's cracked skin, bruised ribs and i was always far too physical for a coldcuntedbitch who turned you down in train stations. all the delusions we live on, rely on, are flooding out of my fingers, like some sort of Moloch in my mind, like Dickinson's nails on my coffin and I can see this now for what it is. this ain't art, it ain't poetry, it's not even hack hip hop, it's a last stand.

it's a last stand, fucking last stand number three hundred and eighty three. i work in threes, i work in threes, i work in threes because you have to snap your fingers to get my attention, you have to buy me a large drink, you have to work three times as hard with me because i will push and pull and push and pull and push and pull because i can.

because i can.

that's been the only reason i've ever done anything.

because i can.

so what happens when i can't?

i play for the highest stakes.

i play for self sabotage.

i play for the glory of losing.

i would have. i would have done anything you asked. anything. anything except keep quiet. anything but that. stupidly, i tried. blindly, i tried. i wanted to be good, for you. to be the one thing you were proud of.

that was never going to work.

ares.mars.me.

Your blue-blooded bile bores me. Your bourgeois aspirations of martyrdom. You want war, you want women raped in the night, you want children never knowing their family, you want hollow eyed men on the look out for salvation. You want war? You want war in the name of character, for the sake of building identity?

Fuck off. Get out. Leave.

I could be more eloquent. I could rein it in, I could be polite. But the red-bellied black snake of my repulsion is rearing its head, it wants to strike. It wants to give you your war, feel your selfishness. you think being scared gives you character? It gives you nightmares, it gives you tremors, it gives you a cold chill you won't shake off.

You think you've never seen war? Sister, I was born in a war. I was born in the same year as you, the year of Lockerbie, the end of the Iran-Iraq war, the Cold War hadn't even ended. We've seen war in our own backyard, in East Timor, in Fiji, in Bosnia, Serbia. We’ve seen America lead us places no blind person should go.

And you want more? (I’ll give you more. Wrap your knuckles, I’ll give you more)

War is humanity at its sickest.

War is an abscess, the absence of humanity.

War is the worst thing I can think of.

I've seen war, and I turn my face.

I turn my face because this is not what I want to glorify.

War is shit, war is piss and vinegar thrown in your face. War is rape, war is cruel, war builds nothing. You think people were tougher during Hitler’s time? They weren’t tough. They were surviving, they weren’t appreciating fuck, they were surviving, and sometimes that’s all you can do, until the scab of memory heals over, and you have some ugly scar that you jazz up with make-up-museums and memorial days and you think people cry because they appreciate how good they had it? No. They cry because they lost something they’ll never get back, and they know it.

You’re an innocent.

I dream of war, sometimes. Of a faceless solider no older than I am, with his fists in my skin, his flesh beating mine. I dream of children, broken bruised, I dream of books burned. I dream of witch-hunts, I dream of rhetoric I can’t fight. I dream of fascism and I dream of bombs falling in the dark.

I am grateful that I live somewhere that is all a dream.

But it dogs my steps, makes me guard my words.

IF.

IF.

If we were to kill all the stupid people, we would be on par with Hitler. A grand statement, a bold statement. A stupid but true statement.

You are talking ethnic cleansing, you are talking senseless judgement. You are talking utter shit, you innocent. I would like to see you try a war and live with yourself.

If we were to detonate the bombs.

If we were to turn the safety off.

If we were to don our gas masks.

Then there would be nothing left.

MUTUALLY FUCKING ASSURED DESTRUCTION.

Every day is a fight. Every day is a war. Every day is a fight and every day is a war. Against misogyny, racism, sexism, homophobia, disfigurement, religion, selfishness. And against people like you.

Did you know Glenn Beck, not a breath after the World Trade Centre fell, when we were all clutching our knees, Glenn Beck said “What America needs is another 9/11.”

I don’t see any difference between him and you.

I used to.

But we’ve drawn our battle lines now.

it is two am and pouring with rain. i am trying to write something intelligent, trying not to let the words become beautiful. in academia, words must be ugly, harsh, impenetrable to all except the initiated. i thought this was what i wanted, something ugly. somewhere i could manifest my own polemic. instead, i am bewildered doomed bruised.

defeated.

years and years ago, i thought i had it all planned out. i knew who what when where i was going to be. writing and devastating and in scotland and completely modern and with someone who would see through me and love me all the same. i knew it was going to unfold with such glory.

what i didnt know was that i had lied so much that i stopped existing.

forget now how many must die.

there's a house in my heart. a ghost-house. at three in the dark inky morning, there is alcohol weighing low in my body, fire thrumming through my mind. someone today told me i was self centered and always had been. a ghost-house. dusty, empty, haunted.

derelict.

because i couldn't get things right, no matter how hard i tried. so i told you all stories. lies. fables. in triplicate, to ram the point home. and then i ran you out of my house, out of my heart, out into the cold. i figured you'd have more fun out there, you'd find god, or at the very least a cheaper way of living.

i wish for things. i wish that:

that this wasn't so awful - and that this wasn't so hard. that definitions and codifiers did their job properly, and that i could stop moving in triplicate. to put down the three versions of myself and stand up anew. to eat something and not have it sit heavy in my stomach like a curse. fulfill my potential or move away from it completely. give up on my heretic tendencie and settle into something stable.

i wish for things.

i don't think i ever believed in your bruised eyes. which shouldn't really surprise you, seeing as i never claimed belief in anything. all the cries of glory, of domination, all those lies and the fervor fever in your bruised eyes, all of it rang hollow, bled easy. and none of it was ever enough, for either of us.

slap

It's much more victorious on the days I don't think about you. When I can take big stomping steps on the cement and feel like the world is one big sodding seafood platter. I fucking hate seafood. And I know all these fucking girls just like you, all ready to drop their pants for someone who looks like Daddy, all ready to sneer at someone like me, all ready to talk about how original they are. You're all from the same school of fish, wet pissing pussyfish. And me, like some stupid octopus, wanting nothing to do with you and begging not to feel like my eight limbs are tied in knots. It's much more fun on the days I don't think about the ocean of misery you've trapped me in.

fucking fish aren't fucking friends.

you keep treating me like a child while you're telling me i'm an adult.
and you keep shifting the boundaries so i don't know how to move.
and you keep calling me a monster.
if a monster's what you want, a monster is what you'll get.
i've only ever wanted to be what you wanted.

she introduced herself as a writer, everytime. i introduced myself as my name. she was, probably still is, a writer. i thought maybe i could be too. i thought wrong. i was never going to be a writer.

i was just going to be someone who used too many self related personal pronouns.

#

"sometimes" is my favourite word. sometimes i thought myself big, sometimes i thought myself more. now though, now i'm sure that i'm just another breteastonellischild, too stupid and selfish to say what i'm thinking, too wannabe masochistic to actually ever change anything. too proud of my wasted youth and inelegance.

sometimes i wonder if i came back a little shattered, or if i was always cracked before i went. i know i'm not an easy person, but i wonder when i've gotten a kevlarcoating without noticing. i don't know if i can get it off, and i don't know who else would want to try.

and sometimes i think that all of this is the biggest joke..

on the wounds/one

let's have this out now. my teeth are growing long and my skin's tight. i think i'm spoiling for a fight. this new damage, this new era of maturity, this posturing bullshit we claim as our own. we are nothing special. we are scum, ordinary. we think we dream big, but we dream selfish. there's nothing new coming out of our mouths, just quickfire behind our backs. so let's have this out now, lance the boil, scream and tear ourselves apart beyond repair. the day sits heavy on my stomach, your stupid laughter in my ears. i'm skinning my knuckles in advance. i am a bitch of the best proportions, i am queen of the indignant and the bored. and you, you're prey.

x

been building for weeks. i should have known. i did know, i just didn't want to admit it. i'm the problem, with my overthinking and my irritability. i'm the problem, you're the agitant. go on and tell them, tell them all how nervy i am, how self obsessed. doesn't bother me at all. but give me back that moment. give me that, and i might not ruin everything.

x

sometimes, i find home.
sometimes, i wish i hadn't shared it with people.
sometimes, i wish i'd never shared it with you.

and i'm supposed to feel bad?


-

talk to me about something other than your job, please.

the unpayable debt i owe

the buzz in my head. a clenched train ticket in my fist. the same route home.
nothing has changed.
sometimes there are twinges, cramps, knots of pain in my belly.
sometimes i think i see blood on my sheets.
when i bring them to my face, they're pristine hospital white.
always.
the notion that i've failed without even getting a chance to try doesn't dim

x

you send me a message, like a teenager. i'm too angry, i'm too hurt. you just sat there, last time i saw you. you sat there and let him rip into me like a rabid dog. you sat there until finally i tore myself away. the words that left your mouth were as awful as his.
you promised, you promised you were always going to be on my side.
and today you send me a message, like a teenager. "i don't really know what to say."
i'll tell you what to say.
"sorry."
"i shouldn't have let that go so far."
"i'm so sorry."
"are you ok?"
"how can we fix this?"
in this whole fucking debacle, people have overlooked most conveniently, how hurt i am. i am bleeding, i am bruised, i am limbless. this is physical, because if i think about how upset i am, how sad, how angry, then things will get worse. you've caused enough damage.
they talk about how it effects them. how it pains them, the void between us. i find it hard to care, when my throat still feels ripped raw from the things i was trying not to say.
it would have been easy for me to be as rabid as you two. i'm known for my viciousness. which is why everyone uses me as target practice.
i don't think i can be bothered anymore. i'll call it in, i'll let you see this as a victory.
but i don't think i'll ever let you in on any of my plans again.

x

it hurts too much, thats the general thrust of things. too much to make anything good happen

steeple to steeple

all the words i could have said, the apologies that died thick, poisoned by my spleen. all the truths i should have told, as the world tried to end around us. all the regrets i said i didn't have. the silence that cloaked us, the heat that burnt our nerve endings, our synapses.

all the times it could have been different.



was it my fault? when i tore down the sky, when i condemned God. when i opened my mouth. when i bought into repetition as a literary device of merit. was it my fault?

-

as children we were emperors, lords, ladies, baronesses, paupers, theives, sailors, pirates, military men, mermaids, pilots, librarians, accountants. we had vast possibilites, value, worth, as children.




endless filler. because as an adult, the possibilities and the value and the worth are harder to grasp if the dollar doesn't give you wet dreams.

"sometimes i look at you, and its brilliant, and i can see all the things we're going to do, and how we'll be immortal, stamped on to people's memories, and this huge wave of contentment rushes over me, and its just...just brilliant.

of course, other times you act like such a fuckwit it's hard to see how you managed out your front door alive."

history

it started with an itch under my skin and a deadline in my eyesight
it ended with a bloody fist and a bruised ego.
#
it's always been violent, with me. you need to remember that. it's always been violent because somehow i got violence confused with expression and decided to always wear a scowl.
#
you used to be so hungry for fame.
i've always been wolfing down the infamy.
#
it was pretense that brought us together, it was me who tore us apart. because i don't like being lied to, i don't like being cheated. don't try to slide the queen of hearts out of your shirtsleeve, she's been in my wallet for years.
#
i don't have cheekbones, talent or motivation. what i do have is miles and miles, gallons and gallons of bile and venom and vehemence because that's easier, isn't it?
you should know. you've got the same.
#
it was your fightclub against my lessthanzero
funny, that.
#
sometimes i catch a glimpse of you, in a sweaty club, in a darkened bar, in a brickcrumbling alley. sometimes i think you catch a glimpse of me, despite my best efforts.
#
sometimes you think people want more than you can give. you're wrong. they don't want what you have to give. they just want to know everything about you, everything that makes you you. they want to understand, because if they understand, then they can own. and if they can own, then they can be powerful.
don't you get it?
#
so you tried to destroy the dream you'd built. while i tried to reenact my nightmares.
we failed, miserably
victory never suited our complexions
#
my personality has always been a lie – i can spin them faster than i can say them. it may be that i don't want people too close, so i let them befriend someone else. maybe if i didnt, maybe you and i would have gotten on better.
except for the fact you do exactly the same thing.
#
twins.
we were always reluctant recalcitrant twins.
steeped in alcohol, spitting our teeth on the ground.
#
i started as an itch under your skin and a deadline in your eyesight
you ended with a bloody fist and a bruised ego.