It’s funny, get it? Not the I’m going to piss myself with laughter and wait until my lungs burst from all that humping against my ribs kind of funny, more the I‘ve just dislocated my arm isn’t that funny haha.
No, no it’s not.
In fact, I’m shitting myself with anxiety.
Life is a lot like baking. You spend hours working away at it; working at working, working at working the demons away. Which starts off well. Until you drop it.
Now I’m standing there, staring at the mess on the floor and think, this, this is a metaphor for my life. If I look at it long enough I can just make out the face of a seagull.
So I’d run onto messenger and tell all my mates about how this cunt is mocking me. Then I’d send off a message to you and cry. I would cry in vines repeating how I’d tripped up endless times, only to have the bird’s face fuck me over like it does in the skies. I’d say hope runs like viscous shame suspended in mouthfuls. I’d say hope is the corpse hanging under reeds, trailing down clogged veins: disposable and limp. You listened, and for once there was hope.
When we speak, I want to move like tectonic plates, grinding against each other
so much so that every time we speak I shout
with black holes to prove that what we are are dying stars
in the cement mix of life
gritty, and mechanical; which is why I cried when
I said, fuck the culture that says humanity can’t be glimpsed through the lips of a stranger,
every time i’m lying in bed with fate thinking why can’t my mythologies be,
and isn’t that the cure when we crawl into our minds making bullets with our words. I gave a machete to my emotions to fight the warfare in my head but by doing so I lost the fight within me.
Hope whispered that they felt cold in the moonlight, too afraid to bathe under the milky way. Hope is the stranger I met inside of me, too green to face the truth. Hope met me with sandpaper teeth trying to speak without the grain, but how could Hope speak without the grain when Hope was the grain. You see
hope is the stranded jelly baby in the road I didn’t realise was real until the car came by
why did i not ask hope to hope for hope. For hope’s sake the sake was to hope. For hopes sake. For fucks sake.
Hope made home in a carmine cast of gelatine I buried in conceit to mirror the face that held hope down. Hope became the crimson stains suffocated into the bed sheets where I used to lay.
Until I met you and you looked into my eyes and I felt .- -/…./- – -/. – ../. .-/- -./. -/../-. Hope flew free. Hope became hope. For once the warfare in my brain wasn’t just the headlights running towards hope. Hope wasn’t just the rabbit standing in the middle of the road missing the meaning of being.
You gave me my being.