shit poetry etc

1.
i took up yoga
and all i got was this lousy t-shirt

2. i took up yoga
drank more
smiled more
slept more
slept less
came off the pill
kept a diary
became vegetarian
listened to happy music and not that depressing dream pop shit
(listening to beach house does not make you pansy wank flower)
stayed celibate for approximately sixteen hours
stopped drinking alcohol
ate spinach
used primrose oil
performed in a play
masturbated
played guitar
cut my leg
self medicated with phenibut
xanax
ecstasy
weed
ketamine
cocaine
and tiramisu
(to name a few)
became vegan
listened to death grips
meditated
ate an entire block of cheese
lost six pounds
gained back seven
stayed at a friends
masturbated again
manifested my issues in hardcore bdsm
shaved the underside of my head then dyed it pink
hit the back of my head against a wall so i dont have to think
(repeatedly)
saw a therapist
had a one night stand and almost died
ate kfc skin drunk then cried
wrote poems
got a sylvia plath tattoo
did all of the other things that you told me to do

3.
and all i got was this lousy t-­shirt
(and the slogans shit)

4. relations
my family worry about me because they think im too temperamental
i mean obviously theyre right
but in a weird sort of way i feel absolutely nothing when i hear glass cracking down
fumbly wires
voices sliding down slopes
speaking in minor
checking up despite her
tendencies to lack
any strength
or bone in her back
to look after her brain before mine
i thought youre supposed to attach your own mask before you secure somebody
elses
like any parent would do that
thank you for my oxygen
it sure does taste bitter sweet

5. myself
im sitting at the bottom of this cushy sweat pit
and the pillows are so concave that they engulf me till my sides split
im getting so frustrated at trying to sound poetic in an attempt to validate what im sat
in as something more important than what reality shows itself to be
a cesspool
where the desire to hurt blurs itself over with the desire to not
and ive been sat here so long its just become so unbearably hot
its like im comforting myself with the romanticisation of what (?)
achieving nothing
wanting nothing
im just stuck here
and i have no desire to leave
but all the desire thats made up in my head
the static in my brain it chains me to my bed

6. the public
sometimes when im walking in town
i stare at the masses of skin sacks covering clumps of people
swarming to the streets like blue bottled flies to watermelon
and it makes me feel so damn uneasy
my skin hairs prick up into spikes and i feel sick to the stomach at the thought of all
these man made rules and regulations forming these life forms around me
with no blink of an eye or hesitation
i just get this constant jarring juxtaposition in my head
compliance to these rules
caring about tiny stupid things like my makeup my hair my career and how we think
beyonce is so important when in reality all we are is animals and the world is so
overpopulated and claustrophobic and closed up and cupped together like little
strands of grass growing together and over flowing and stale and so fucked up and i
wonder why we are even wearing clothes when in the grand scheme of every lifetime
we are more minute than a spec of dust
and its possible our universe sits itself on somebody elses fingertip
but if i thought like this every day id become more deranged than i already am
so the only way to accept anything is to forget everything
continue focusing on the minute man made details because if you dont sanity turns
you in
you spiral out of control
so i take a drink of whiskey and spend forty five minutes curling my hair with a hot
electronic stick
i draw shapes on my face and stare myself down in the mirror
am i pretty enough to be wanted
am i pretty enough to be real
maybe
maybe

7. alan
pauline
when you were younger did you dream
of flutter floating river boats and mole and ratty on the stream
did you see hope
in clothes pegs pinging in the base of teapots
or in the thoughtful woven green of scratchy wool
i know i did
in the jam tart crumbs squashed against the edges of the tin
or within the plastic baskets i picked berries in
white fur flashing across the gardened trim
i remember the cold sun air clipping my skin
sucking on a polo mint
dipping my hand in and out of bourbon bucket bubbles
feet pitter pattering round corners
crunching on the sherry soaked rubble
i was innocent
and so is he
and so were you
through and through

8. when i grow up i want to be a ballerina
no one seems to understand
the intricacies of my brain
like im a child
curled
inside a jewellery box
in which its paints began to stain
the music mechanisms broken
and the painted ballerina
(pointed toes posing beneath her)
has her face scratched off
her blonde hair bleeding into peach skin
she isnt turning
(you know unless you try to force it)
pink paint still draws her corset
and the little jingly tune stutters as shes eased round each cog
even though you can hear
it isnt what it used to be
and i want it to be what it used to be
i want to feel pink peached padded fingers
melt the ice around my quiet bits
heal the reminiscence of held hands

9. but then im brought back to silence
and i remember no one understands

10. say it again
everything seems so repetitive
and im not wanting it not to be
you know cause it requires effort
it requires moving
it requires trying
and all i want to do is stretch out all my four limbs so wide that they press against all
four walls around me until they crack and rumble into rubble
but each walls too far away
im in a room big enough to dissuade me from wanting bigger
this illness seems so repetitive now
and im wanting it not to be
you know cause the romanticizations worth it
it requires changing
requires remoulding
stale rubbling clay
its like when you leave the lid off the playdough in cranium
you cant even play the damn game anymore
and all i keep thinking
is more than just thinking
its unnecessary and futile and so damn stupid
its am i not bothered or is my illness not bothered
am i crying or is my illness crying
am i absent or is my illness absent
am i uncontrollably laughing in hysterics lying on the floor wrapped naked in a duvet
in the doorway of my best friends room pressing my feet against her carpet then the
door frame then the hallway laminate then her carpet then the door frame then the
hallway laminate spinning myself in circles and circles and haha its funny ! shes so
tired ! carpet door frame laminate carpet door frame laminate hall way door frame
laminate door frame laminate laminate door frame hallway
and the jokes over
the hysterics are gone
and once again
my heads all fuzzy
my smiles all flat
my backs all sweaty
and i look a bit of a twat
everythings repetitive
and i dont want it to end

11. it requires moving
it requires trying
and im not one to pretend

12. i care about the environment but the cardboard straws in wetherspoons are
fucking shit
sucking sour shake up soggy straws
i chew on wet cardboard and soak my soul
in tight ropes of self resemblance
and cold cups of cope

13. poster paint
im stuck in a brain induced chamber with the pictures of what i want to be stuck on
the walls
the papers gone all yellow and its peeling at the sides
shit
dont touch it itll fall down and if we try to stick it back up again its just going to fall to
pieces in your hands
well what am I supposed to do then you dumb piece of shit (?)
i dont know really theyre just nice to look at arent they (?)
i guess but the pictures are fading and i want to be able to remember what they look
like
please
i want to feel them with my hands

14. im bleeding blue ink imprints
(on my inside of my left hand)
i am the lines that draw you
the milky white that sees you
the thin blue red and wispy
cracked up like a chewy biro
im wanting to be the ink stick from your rollerball
the blue from your pull
the house inside your eyeball brains
threading sightline chains in wool
sitting above your iris
cross legged comfy on its veins
i draw doodles like a blood sample
spat from each eyelash like rain
nostalgia overthrows me
like salt waves stuck up my nose
blowing globules of sticky stuff
and the more i blow it grows
oozing thick black ember
it clings onto my brain
and as each prink prick warms it up
the pressure makes it stain

15. i broke my biro
they made me feel inadequate
so i fight against it
the jarring shard
lodged into my head
that relays back to me in front of the mirror again and again
it tells me what i dont create means nothing and it never will
as im defeated by the quills around me
i pour the ink thats left away
and idly watch
the fickle coat of resin
layer its old home
a sticky cup
left on the sideboard
watching me do nothing
but collect dust

16. how to appear completely and utterly normal when at social events
dont

17. pressure
pressing on the ball points of my feet
feels like im pressing on the nibs of two ball point pens
blue tacky ink
dancing over
the skin prints
im peering as
it sinks in
and begins to
imprint
what looks like
blue bloody blotches:
formed from a
pressure pad pose
peeling away
at the tips
of my toes
i dont know
what the other
pen knows
just the ink
that derives
from the
nib that I chose

18. barely back for christmas
im drinking this cooking wine from the back of my mums spice drawer and the taste
embedded onto my lips smells like my alcoholic grandmother
and im sipping and sucking and sodding hoping that something happens to me more
than this
whatever 'this' is
and i dont want to have to ooze myself in chemicals everyday so it numbs my sense
of reality and personality so i can carry on
i do that already and when i swim back up from whats drowning me reality stabs me
even harder
i am outside myself
i am numb
and the only time i feel something is when i feel nothing and i forget it all and my
head is bobbing with chemicals that douse it all out
is that living
why should i have to forget reality to be nothing
but then im sipping on this sour cup and im reminded of how i dont want you to feel
that way either
and is that selfish
to message you again and again when my fibres stretch and dip so far down that
they drag along the dirty gravel
it is and i know it
i guess all im trying to say is that when i saw you a couple days ago past midnight
through a our old wetherspoons window laughing and smiling with the people that
hold you for the first time in my entire life i didnt want to tell you that i saw you
as i sucked on a cancer stick leaning against a rotting shaw wall it was like a mile
stone crashed in our timelines
grounding me and holding me and pinning me to the very same floor that built us
both up into the people we became
i dont want you to respond to this and in fact i will be mad if you do
when i close this chat window my head will probably hit my pillow harder than a gang

19. fight in chorley and its because of that my words and our worlds mean less than our
brains build them up to be i want you to know that you created me and its weird
because every day i want to die and i want to feel something and i guess i want to
apologise for ripping apart every inch of you because of a past i cant control
if we were both peas our pods would grow in separate countries
just because our humour aligns doesn't mean we understand the same language
i guess i want to thank you for building me and i dont really know if im going to carry
on or not or whether you are but like i guess im sorry for imprinting my rotting brain
onto you
i see nothing but static
and why should i have to forget reality in order to be nothing ?

20. river ouse
feet dangling
with my tippy toes brushing the water
(rubble pressing imprints into the backs of my thighs)
i finished all of my alcohol and i want to drink more
i dont know why im so ill right now when i was doing so well than before
i am slightly scared of my own brain and the things it is capable of without my
knowledge
(which in itself is ironic)
i want to be dead but i dont (?)
and im aware of that thought being slightly demonic
i want to jump into the river but only if someone will save me as i know the last six
seconds before you die
(or kill yourself on purpose)
are the first six and the last six where you begin to regret your decision
and by then its too late
(despite your drunkenly distorted precision)
but part of me hopes i wouldnt feel this regret
and i could just swim myself into the bliss of a stubborn mindset
filling up with water and killing me slowly
relishing on the pain like a feeling ive had only
(i not felt any others they dont count cause im lonely)
because feeding on this shit is sort of feeding my depression (?)
and as it wears off im reminded that its only a suppressant
that im hoping of its coping if i dont let myself die
all i need to keep doing is get sober and try
but instead all i do is just drink myself dry

21.
my body
i feel like beetles are eating away at me then throwing me back up
suckling on the fatty yellow bits
but if they were i wouldnt even know for sure
as ive never avoided reflections for this long before
its like i can feel my stomach enlarging when i move and even when i dont i can feel
the jelly of it
wobbling and jiggling and breathing and blowing me out and even when i suck in the
oh so supposed quiet bits scream oh so loud and theyre there
with every breath out i feel them and with every movement i try they own me
the bones they grow from owe me
for all the times theyve thrown me down yet still filled me back up fuller and fuller and
fuller until i have to cover my stomach up with books or laptops or pillows just to feel
comfortable in my own skin before i go to sleep and im -­
on my own
no one is watching but the nerves inside my head and for some reason they hurt so
much more than anyone else ever could
because no one else can give me dopamine hits from feeling the bits in between my
ribs
and thats the sad part
the way it forces me to feel
how a flat board stomach makes me feel real

22.
4:25pm
fall for that again I’ll give you a smack
you duck egg.
your thoughts arent real
there is no goodness in the things that you feel
you dont equate
so dont you fucking hesitate
or succumb
to the blood bubbling and rushing and blinding itself up up to the roots of your skull
banging on the backs of your head plates like a bang to a drum
too fucking fast
dont let it burn
god damn you dont let it burn
i rather you let the vomit churn
than bring the bile up for the stay
they're not a house guest
or a fucking friend
they're a bitter burst of peppercorn
and you're not just gonna sit around with it tingling in the tight taut tucks of your teeth
spit it out
spit it out and breathe

23.
despite it all
it will always pass
ive not written to you
recently
and shes been dreaming about dying less
but dont you worry
the dreams are still there
willowing in mesh coated covers
cradling lovers
that don't quite meet skin to skin
an envelope with its flaps sealed tightly in
cracking its sides
like an egg
i stick them back together
and go back to bed