Life’s winter is done. (draft)

All those days of childhood laughter passed, you sat in a dark room, as your wings molted much too fast.

Life may never have been perfect, with a daddy missing while your mother wept. and her pills, within reach.
You bled your tears on an open page like the walls you used to cover in scribbles and paint.
You’ve found your art, it was your release. When with a page full of thoughts, you drifted to sleep.
As an elderly boy of fourteen.

Life gets harder while you grow up. You miss heaven’s beauty while you’re looking at the ground, can’t think of tomorrow when you’re stuck in the now, then you escape in bottles and riz, you find a tiny little moment of forget bliss. And things aren’t so bad.

Life seems to lose all simplicity when your body’s in your twenties but your mind’s nineteen, with sudden dreams you get memories of your mother hiding from your stepdaddy,
And her telling you, that it’s okay. Tomorrow
we’ll be on our way.

And through it all, the sleeplessness would stay, you’d still lie awake until the moon would fade. And the grey of day you’d find that another twenty pages bled from your mind.
Your stories got you to sleep.
Your stories delved your dreams.

In time one or two more broken hearts drove you to just seeking some memory loss.
And you know there’s a shortcut.
with one cup of water and one or four pills, you reached the heaven of oblivion.
Where you found what you wanted: Nothing.

And perscription and addiction took your body and your soul, and you found yourself in that darkened hole, that nothing you wanted was now all you had, you lost your way on such a very numb path.

And it took three years and a major break down and a mother nearly cracking to bring you around,
and you knew times had changed. Coming down from blackness brought the passion again, the heart of your mind was bleeding again.

All along the pills were you’re enemy, while you couldn’t sleep you were creating beauty.
Your art and your pain were one and the same, brought on by the blood that was your heritage.
And your pages were all full of red, your fingers sticky, where you bled
On a mother and a lover
and everyone that had to take your shit while you lost your mind trying to save it.

The coping mechanism has always been the cure.
Three days awake gave you your best literature.
Twenty four, will be better.

proseform of sigur ros’ “baba”

It’s been a long day, building frankenstein words out of blocks in front of a television filled with animal suits. Mother’s lullaby fills your world with love as you’re drowned in the daze of exhaustion. On the edge of blackness there’s only a faint smell of alcohol on breath. And then you’re asleep. The moon grows and where darkness falls, imagination fills the void with fantastical beauties, in fact the mystic beings of the eve slide from the ethereal to the material.

Luminous orbs in iridescent lights keep shifting chakra-shades, indigo to yellow. These prestigidations swirl around your swaddled body with a sense of contained urgency. The magic does not sprout from fey godmothers or celestial benefactors, it is an autonomous faceless design that keeps you safe for the gifts that have yet to birth on your breath. The wisps crowd and dance in a bizarre eddy of liquid colour. They nearly swarm, and where they do, they leave ember-trails of tiny phantasmal pictures: possible futures, which rise in their wake, before you wake.

And in the morning you remember dreams that could only be imagined by an ayahuasca-mad shaman, and you’ll try to express them with building blocks with letters on them.

5am insomnia

A whole adventure. Here in the blackened nook where sunlight once died. Like all holy light, it is immortal, and is now patiently awaiting its ressurrection.
You loathe its arrival. You don’t hate the light… Much.
You hate that it heralds the end of the eve. The nocturnal fallacy in which your biology sobs to hear a lullabye, but your mind ponderously plods through the metaphysical expanse that is your imagination.

Dawn proudly announces that the bastion of power has been relinquished by the light-thieving moon. Luna is dead. It’s time to get up, even though you still haven’t fallen asleep.

You’re past the conversations with yourself. Some of the words skip your mouth by now, nestling in the cradle of your earlobe without any lips to form them.

Are you really hearing audible voices? You’re not sure. What you do know is that your clock has a gag in its mouth, or rather the batery is no longer a gag in its socket… You laugh at your wit. Wait… Did you really remove the batery or was that a dream and you’ve become deaf to the constant rhythmic reminder of the time of rest slipping away.
You listen… You hear a faint tick, but you also hear that fictive child’s voice saying ‘no.’ 

it is fictive…

So you don’t know if the clocks timing the sand out of the nights hour glass.

You half-fill your bed, the other half is empty. You have no uncomfortably warm lover whose heat you can shy away from in a cascade of blankets. No the night is your lover, it does not mind your absence, it does not respond to your monologue, it shows no sign that it knows of your late-night plight.

The night’s a bad lover.
Again you laugh at your own wit.
‘I’m insane’ you think.
‘I don’t care you respond with either your mind or your mouth.
You honestly don’t know if either statements are true.

You’re thirsty. You’re pretty sure you just heard something metallic, keys, you’re still thirsty.
The sounds are just phantasmal ambiance.

Not the one in the bathroom though. Your lip trembles under a thin stream of faucet water.

That’s a real sound. The one a clock makes. You raise your head to see the small ticking trinket bringing the reality of accoustics back to you.
The one in your room is off.

Your head snaps sideways- the hell was that? Again the car tries to start its engine. Damit… Workday is starting…

Soon the light will chase away the dark, so you close your lids again, inviting the dark to take refuge behind them like the jews would hide from the nazi’s.

The glare from your screen has become painful anyway.

Loathe the Dawn

A whole adventure. Here in the blackened nook where sunlight once died.

Like all holy light, it is immortal, and is now patiently awaiting its resurrection.
You loathe its arrival. You don’t hate the light… Much.
You hate that it heralds the end of the eve. The nocturnal fallacy in which your biology sobs to hear a lullabye, but your mind ponderously plods through the metaphysical expanse that is your imagination.

Dawn proudly announces that the bastion of power has been relinquished by the light-thieving moon. Luna is dead. It’s time to get up, even though you still haven’t fallen asleep.

You’re past the conversations with yourself. Some of the words skip your mouth by now, nestling in the cradle of your earlobe without any lips to form them.

Are you really hearing audible voices? You’re not sure. What you do know is that your clock has a gag in its mouth, or rather the battery is no longer a gag in its socket… You laugh at your wit. Wait… Did you really remove the batery or was that a dream and you’ve become deaf to the constant rhythmic reminder of the time of rest slipping away.

You listen… You hear a faint tick, but you also hear that fictive child’s voice saying ‘no.’ 

It is fictive…

So you don’t know if the clocks timing the sand out of the nights hour glass.

You half-fill your bed, the other half is empty. You have no uncomfortably warm lover whose heat you can shy away from in a cascade of blankets. No the night is your lover, it does not mind your absence, it does not respond to your monologue, it shows no sign that it knows of your late-night plight.

The night’s a bad lover.
Again you laugh at your own wit.
‘I’m insane’ you think.
‘I don’t care you respond with either your mind or your mouth.
You honestly don’t know if either statements are true.

You’re thirsty. You’re pretty sure you just heard something metallic, keys, you’re still thirsty.
The sounds are just phantasmal ambience.

Not the one in the bathroom though. Your lip trembles under a thin stream of faucet water.

• That’s a real sound. The one a clock makes. You raise your head to see the small ticking trinket bringing the reality of acoustics. back to you.

The one in your room is off.

Your head snaps sideways- the hell was that?

Again the car tries to start its engine. Dammit… Workday is starting…

Soon the light will chase away the dark, so you close your lids again, inviting the dark to take refuge behind them for the last few cold moments before you have to fit in with society again.

The glare from your screen has become painful anyway.