Sunday, September 20, 2009


There are things to be remembered.
My love is not such that it asks your love in return.

This seems the more pure Love.

- and the more painful?

- Shoosh.

There are things that need to be remembered.

The smell of fire, a temple in Nagoya, you are bigger than they, the heart and mind combined can control your own universe, people make their own mistakes, no amount of Love can conquer Freedom, All Things Must Pass.

A bird in the bush is where it belongs,
best to sit and listen to its song.

There are things to be remembered. Six years of circular motion. Six years of fingers up, unafraid to be afraid. Proud of being hurt, no, proud of showing hurt, when the whole world is afraid of showing hurt. TOO proud NOT to show those who hurt you, that they hurt you.


Tomorrow, and the next day, I will have the time, and I will copy what needs to be copied, and then we'll take it all down. Six years in one moment, and all the talking, kissing, flirting, eye to eye, anyone but you, both the same - illusions, really, proven by time - and you, Boy, stupid enough to grin and clap before it all comes down and you frown and of course, Irish, you want to drink and be done. Destroy, but you run - two wrongs don't make a right - and now, all of it will disappear, and no one will visit, and no one will sneak and no one will ever know what was, or that it even existed, this Hell you made, when you tried to build Two Beautiful Castles.


- is that what you want?

- No. You know, if you know at all, that I am far more romantic than that. But what I want is, never to have reached this point in the first place. Never to have opened every door, shown my foetal position, my breath, my sob, a page of ready made Loser.

- ha.

- Yeah, exactly. Ha.

- And next?

- Next comes the greatest word of all. Next comes, The Unexpected.

- Can you do it?

- It hurts. It hurts far more than I thought it would. It hurts as though everything I have ever believed in is wrong, and everything I have ever despised turned out to be Truth. It hurts as though my injustice must be accepted as Real, and my Wide Eyed Bewilderment is undeserving and Dispensable. It hurts like that. Like giving up on Love. Like staring at a dead body. Or maybe like, waking up grumpy, accidentally swallowing a shot of Listerine, rubbing Hair Gel all over your face because you think it's moisturiser and then stepping on a rusty nail and contracting tetnus. Maybe more like that. But...

- But?

- well, what do you want me to say? If I fucking have to do it, then...

- Then?

- Then it's done.

- Done.



There you are. You are leaning casually on the wooden table and your shoulder points at me from across the room. You are tall and slender. You wear pink Converse beneath skin tight blue jeans which rise and rise and rise up those legs. Your loose fitting top is striped, blue and white, and it falls from your shoulder from time to time, but you are not the self concious type. You look like Maggie Gyllenhall. I am trying not to think this too much. You are smiling and talking to your friend and when you smile, everyone around you smiles. You are making me smile, and I haven't met you yet. And then you start to look at me, and we both smile, and this continues for two hours, until you sit alone and look at me and raise your eyebrows as if to say, well...

And I talk to you - and you text me in the night - and I was right and smiling feels good again

and The Rollercoaster


And this story

I Hope

belongs somewhere


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