Spoiled Negatives

These past days are a reel of negatives spoiled in the light. 

I'm anguish and exhaustion and pain. Sweet, sweet pain that runs its fingers along my spine and creeps into the vacant sockets of my eyes.



almost home



 Yet how content I am to allow it to satiate my being. 

It's the kind of tired that stems from days filled with too much thought.



music



Perhaps I live in the broken spines of books. Books filled with crackling pages and spidery script. In bygone times. Maybe this alieness is more than my faith. I'm an outsider inside-out. 

We walked in the rain. Their fear is eating me.  

Curse ye, Greecian scholars of old.

I think that our geniusmasterplan failed when I got pins and needles and had to put Florence and the Machine up my sleeve. The joys of examination rooms filled with the shuffling pages and cramped hands covered in ink.  

I have spent the past few days in the vacuum of Mathematics. It took me a full ten minutes to  realise that the sky had ripped away the bandage that it has been wearing for the past few days. The raw blue scab apprehended me into flabbergasted wonderment. I don't do that often enough.

Mumford and Sons. Rather lovely.

I have no focus and I think that my Maths is going to be atrocious. Nonetheless, I will attempt to soldier on.

Dread sits deep in my belly and will snake up my spine tomorrow.

Here comes an inanimate punch in the gut.

Light

Une rédaction

Ma passion est les mots. Peut-être, c’est un petit peu abstrait. En tout cas, je n’ai jamais fait que tout le monde faisait. 

Les mots sont touts. Même quand je suis maladroit avec ils. Ils sont ma relation avec Dieu, mes relations avec ma famille, mes amis. Ils sont plus de ces choses.  Ils sont la musique pour l’âme lasse.  

Les mots, les mottes de terre que des gens peuvent jeter à d’autres. Les mots qui peuvent être les briques qui établissent des ponts entre les gens. Je pense que si je n’ai pas pris la Biologie, je pensais que mon sang était l’encre rouge.

Quelquefois je sens de l’albatros dans le poème de Charles  Baudelaire. Quand j’écris, je mont en flèche, je suis dans le ciel clair. En même temps, si j’ai besoin de parler, je trébuche dessus mes pieds. Puis, les mots sont hostiles. Ils se hissent dessus ma langue et tombent sur la terre.

J’adore les mots parce qu’ils créent les autres mondes. On a besoin de prendre soin de quoi on dit, mais c’est applicable pour toutes des choses dans la vie. Bien sûr, j’ai des autres passions, le saxophone, l’art, la photographie. Ils sont très importants, ils me forment. Mais je suis les mots.  

Chapped

My lips are cracks in the dark asphalt of the night.

They are releasing an eruption of words.

I miss the days of my dormancy.

Eventually the cooldrink bottle was rattled to it's core.

Now there's a sticky mess all over the floor.

It's surprising that it didn't go flat with time.

Strange that.

I don't drink fizzy drinks anymore.

I'm orbiting around Something Bigger.

Yet I'm stuck to this axis.

I'm seeing planets spin off-course.

They collide with one another in the still darkness of space.

Life is turmoil.

Life is change.

Accept it.

Wire

Sand 

Lonely

Strangely unphased.

We're dissecting a heart tomorrow.  

For Biology.

Should be exciting.

We have 160 000 km of blood vessels in our bodies.

This should seem irrelevant in the face of the thousands of people whose hearts have been stilled by the tsunami in Japan.

Yet, I have to learn about the aorta, pulmonary arteries, atria, tricuspids, ventricles and all that blood.

So, out damned spot, my guilt for lack of empathy.

 My heart beats on.

heart

I am the Walrus



I am he as you are he as you are me
And we are all together
See how they run like pigs from a gun
See how they fly, I'm crying



Green

Sitting on a cornflake

Waiting for the van to come

Corporation T-shirt, stupid bloody Tuesday

Man you've been a naughty boy

You let your face grow long

I am the eggman

They are the eggmen

I am the walrus

Goo goo g' joob

Mr. City policeman sitting
Pretty little policemen in a row
See how they fly like Lucy in the sky
See how they run, I'm crying

Pretty p'licmen sitting in a row



I'm crying, I'm crying, I'm crying

Yellow matter custard
Dripping from a dead dog's eye
Crabalocker fishwife
Pornographic priestess
Boy, you've been a naughty girl
You let your knickers down

I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob

Sitting in an English garden
Waiting for the sun
If the sun don't come you get a tan
From standing in the English rain



Record

I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob
G-goo goo g' joob

Expert, texpert choking smokers
Don't you think the joker laughs at you?
See how they smile like pigs in a sty
See how they snide, I'm crying



Lennon

Climbing up the Eiffel tower
Elementary penguin singing Hare Krishna
Man, you should have seen them kicking
Edgar Allan Poe

Eiffel Tower

I am the eggman
They are the eggmen
I am the walrus
Goo goo g' joob
G-goo goo g' joob
Goo goo g' goo
G-goo goo g' joob goo

Juba juba juba
Juba juba juba
Juba juba, juba juba
Juba juba

The Beatles



Dusty picture books.

Untimely hours feel like a rickety pile of dusty books with crooked spines that are threatening to topple on top of me and crack the sutures of my cranium. 





Creaky spines

 There's a fire on the mountain. It looked like a child had spilled the murky water of their latest painting endeavour across the sky. The sun peered at me, sleepless and bloodshot from a day in the acrid smoke, then the western mountain's eyelids drooped for the somber slumber of night.



Boots


I chased after a couple of guinea fowl the other day. On the hill. The tar. For the hell of it. It made no sense and I wallowed in the lack of structure, of logic.




Sometimes

 We build towers out of cardboard boxes and see who can climb to the sharpest, highest pinnacle. Then we gloat over the crumpled remains when they fall from their lofty posts. They become flightless birds plummeting towards an end...amongst the downy plummage that proves, ultimately, to be futile. Where does wisdom go then? Empathy? Compassion?




Mr Cellophane

 My ears are permeated by melodies, but I hear nothing.

Content

Dusty picture books are stored in the loft of my mind. They are the eternity of summer afternoons journeying through Makebelieve. They contain the sleepless terror of shadowy nights. There are Oros spills and wax crayon scribbles sticking the pages together. They are pastel and gold. The pain of a bee sting and the warmth of an embrace. Lying on the roughness of a carpet lost in a sound. They are blurred. I wish that I could have kept my promise to myself of not losing myself to the adult world. That I regret. I've lost childhood. 

      



Child




   

Trains

"I'll tell you a riddle. You're waiting for a train, a train that will take you far away. You know where you hope this train will take you, but you don't know for sure. But it doesn't matter. How can it not matter to you where that train will take you?"

- Mal,Inception

 

A Stray Dog

This poor beast made up of sinew and bone turned his head in sorrow at my recording of his depraved conditions. He did not want me to photograph his fate. He was an animal who had given up on life. Faithless, a nebulous image of a once-proud creature.

That made me sad. That poverty reduces living beings to circumstances in which they no longer desire life.

L'Albatros

L'Albatros

Souvent, pour s'amuser, les hommes d'équipage
Prennent des albatros, vastes oiseaux des mers,
Qui suivent, indolents compagnons de voyage,
Le navire glissant sur les gouffres amers.

À peine les ont-ils déposés sur les planches,
Que ces rois de l'azur, maladroits et honteux,
Laissent piteusement leurs grandes ailes blanches
Comme des avirons traîner à côté d'eux.

Ce voyageur ailé, comme il est gauche et veule!
Lui, naguère si beau, qu'il est comique et laid!
L'un agace son bec avec un brûle-gueule,
L'autre mime, en boitant, l'infirme qui volait!

Le Poète est semblable au prince des nuées
Qui hante la tempête et se rit de l'archer;
Exilé sur le sol au milieu des huées,
Ses ailes de géant l'empêchent de marcher.

— Charles Baudelaire

The Albatross

 

Often, to amuse themselves, the men of a crew
Catch albatrosses, those vast sea birds
That indolently follow a ship
As it glides over the deep, briny sea.

Scarcely have they placed them on the deck
Than these kings of the sky, clumsy, ashamed,
Pathetically let their great white wings
Drag beside them like oars.

That winged voyager, how weak and gauche he is,
So beautiful before, now comic and ugly!
One man worries his beak with a stubby clay pipe;
Another limps, mimics the cripple who once flew!

The poet resembles this prince of cloud and sky
Who frequents the tempest and laughs at the bowman;
When exiled on the earth, the butt of hoots and jeers,
His giant wings prevent him from walking.

— William Aggeler, The Flowers of Evil (Fresno, CA: Academy Library Guild, 1954)