always two sides to the damn story

i light a kerosene lamp to this bruised evening, where there are no wishes dovetailing the mightiest springs of togetherness, and almighty dream clouds come a shivering into the brazen sky, all hung with spits and spats of a deadly youth.

withstanding nothing i adore you and follow skittish tails towards the deeper woodland of my own forests, breathing, sometimes clearing, never hearing, almost on top of listening, shape shifting, these times are lent to be unbroken.. but still i laugh at wrong moments and inappropriate time scales.. weather me abroad.. i am squealing, sheeting off the mountainside and into pleasure.
what will the neighbours say?

what price to pay for anew, for playtime to come unannounced in the deadest of seasons. a guest without shoes on, can we let him into our mansion, all covered with green and mould and rolling hills all rolling by the wayside? Breaking pots fill the sideboards and cupboards streaming over with lice and fish hooks, the washing all a tumble, the grey sky all a crooked and untidy like a nest of whispers. i can't leave the house, yes i can, no i cant leave the house today, too mmany spectres darkening my way out of the cellar, into the light, i've been here before in the silence of twilight.
bless me, i shiver a blessing like it's not quite true, better the devil you know, than the one who is leaving now out the back entrance. let him go into the night? what if his trousers are too tight? what if his car won't start and he is stranded by the road side? how bad will bad be then?

we must push longing to the final frontier of reason and over the edge it must go and down to the cavern below.

but now i am here...these rocks are steep, i didn't bring my right shoes. i wore the wrong skirt, i should never have eaten that last bitter pill. no, it's too sharp up here, i'm all unequipped. i should be sipping out of chipped mugs down Brick Lane, not here like a fool, announcing my Other Name. I am not meant for the high life, am i not more suited to the suited and booted, the roller coaster riders of black death espionage and true romance shot up like heads on sticks before the flaccid King?

What i mean to say, is, Am i not too wrong for the Right life? will my feet fit the shoes of a fine tailor? i am used to hobbled walking. This isn't me, This isn't me. i am able bodied in dementia, i am a prism in a sea of light beckoning to stranded sailors and mermaids simple and bowing. i dread the step forward, i dread the night alone. i am safer in a cell, and i say that without irony. i closed the door on love, now donn't ya go tell me you may open that dream well again like the most fantastic conjuror off the telly?

yes, my roots aren't intellectual, but i never fitted the old life anyway, and won't fit either into melancholy or the happy flappy brigade. i hate middle class living and working class too, but at least my roots are showing now, an i boot out one from the other, and skip off to play football with Stephen and smash windows of my old school. i was 16 and discovering life and kick out the jams.. i was braver then, and oh so scared to seek the soul inside me, but longed for it all the same.

and i live in fear you won't understand me and this isn't the stupidest fear out, and let's face it, shame is on the menu today, and i felt that long before i could even speak to anyone to say "don't look at my pain". and instead, i play with imaginary friends as have done all my life, they talk to better than human, and they give gifts of solitary miracles, but sorry, they always were the substitute for saying who you really were to people who wouldn't listen.
dodge the chair flyingover your head, raise your voice o#ver the bellowing lungs of catastrophe and whinnying and tip out the ashtrays and the empty bottles of booze and well, you gave up triyin g long ago to be heard over the drone of nothing being said at all, and yes we all know you're a#ngry as the mountains at Mumbai, but well, fucking breaking out isn't an option you ever held seriously amongst the middle class liberalism, and buddhism and counsellingism, and comfy cosy " we have a reasonable life and we are reasonable ", who just don't understan what it's like to have your sister cut her arms over and over and over and over andover and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over gain til you want to scream stop stop stop stop as many times, but how to tell the ones you love to stop wh en they aren;t listening and really you

wa nt to say stop hurt#ing me too, stop cutting my arms with your blunt razo##ores, i never wanted it anyweay i never wanted any of this i got off my arse and searched a better life and why the fuck am i still screming in this blackout which is not my own it is theirs it is yours it is not my doi ng not# my keeping. but happiness is another breed entirely, and one i feel extremely uncomfortable about.