she doesn't want to love me, she can almost say it. the day crying for some resolution. night stark bare and undefined. lose myself quickly/turning over thoughts of mingled pasts and suffer now greater in a sleep meant for peace. the undead my company for my deeds.

sped through this one like a banshee. all-white screamin licks of fury and promise. not a sensible thing to say and not a deaf ear for it to fall upon. our eyes gobbling the remnants leftover by ears eager to gorge on fruitful words from frothing mouths.

exile for some and embrace for others. i choose. the malady of self-imposed supposed comfort. in or out through or under around or down . . . i choose . . . i choose.

evenings spent listening to dylan's radio cadences, poetic influence drives me to further will oldham material and i have to travel far and wide to receive pajo's newest offering. but it pails into insignificance in the light of modern times. i don't think i have ever confused tears with happiness.

i didn't get the job because i was expected to dress a certain way. i naively thought we were through all that. but uniforms are important at school it seems.

so i slipped back into comfortable attire and stretched out across the sky for a weekend of nocturnal not give a fucks. twice we escaped to the adventure playground where our need for regression overcame us. excited high childlike.

the wheel rotates slowly down a hill and never up. there are signs of drastic action ahead. i am on the brink of crashing again and the fear of what will happen then is unthinkable. i have a number in my pocket. i have a giro. i have an interview for a job.

further blackouts . . . transcendent discussion . . . pep pills . . . eighteen hours of furious talk . . . fireworks from a rooftop . . . taxi rides before twelve . . . like irish poets in a brewery.

the night passed ridiculously in a back and forth rocking motion. the forward swing offered hope and possible resolve, the backward lurch defecting all that had proceeded. the drama sustaining the mood. in the morning, rather than say anything, we left each other on a wave of confusion to seek refuge in our aloneness. and, typically, after my brief escape from the world i wake to find the fuzzy filth banging my door for answers.

spent food money on weed. a result of selfharm. hammered and drilled the morning away trying to forget the things i had done; whistling happy tunes like some sort of dick.

with this rather bleak outlook . . . these changing climates . . . this everpresent knowledge of mortality . . . i do believe in gruesome and ghastly prospects.

we scooted through the night with a fixed and pointed stare upon the bloody moon. the sea awash with plenty. in the recess, back over our shoulder, the polluted street savoured autocracy and slipped about murkily for shadows unseen.