French title and pretentious thoughts:
He sat counting the copper coins he had horded. Physical occupation of a repetitive task, to take away the minds pain. Falling in love with an idea. Don't do it. I've told you before. Learn your own lessons. Attachment is a heart's worst friend.
I'll explain it to you again over black coffee and cigarettes. It was once squash and cereal. Remember those days of innocence? When everything was still just the same; really, honestly, it was. Your psychological hedonism has backfired this time.
And she never kissed me whilst sober. And I never kissed her whilst sane. Yet, it changes nothing. Attachment is a heart's worst friend. "Choose your friends wisely." So friends is all I choose to be.
Sunday, 23 January 2011
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Genki Shank
New year, new words.
Raising myself from the bed. Raising myself from her side. This strangers side. Consistent sentences that add nothing new to the narrative. A long night. All night long. I sit on the edge of her bed, where the sheets are most exposed. Duvet half on the floor. Amongst the clothes. Amongst the sin. I roll a cigarette and pour myself some whiskey. Dirty glass, dirty lungs. I move over to the window. Inhaling nicotine and releasing it into the morning air. The stale room would suffocate the beauty of the smoke. I put the whiskey to my lips and drink.
She watches me, as I stand in my boxers marked with the words 'Calvin Klein.' This is my name to her. Might as well be. Might as well be. She observes me. Single piercing, single tattoo, single cigarette, double whiskey. This is me at my most masochistic. Drinking and inhaling my own self pity. Taking on hers. The stranger who continues to watch me, silent.
"What are you?" She asks through lips smudged with lipstick.
"A cliché," I tell the stranger.
&&& All he wants to tell her is, "Care for me."
Raising myself from the bed. Raising myself from her side. This strangers side. Consistent sentences that add nothing new to the narrative. A long night. All night long. I sit on the edge of her bed, where the sheets are most exposed. Duvet half on the floor. Amongst the clothes. Amongst the sin. I roll a cigarette and pour myself some whiskey. Dirty glass, dirty lungs. I move over to the window. Inhaling nicotine and releasing it into the morning air. The stale room would suffocate the beauty of the smoke. I put the whiskey to my lips and drink.
She watches me, as I stand in my boxers marked with the words 'Calvin Klein.' This is my name to her. Might as well be. Might as well be. She observes me. Single piercing, single tattoo, single cigarette, double whiskey. This is me at my most masochistic. Drinking and inhaling my own self pity. Taking on hers. The stranger who continues to watch me, silent.
"What are you?" She asks through lips smudged with lipstick.
"A cliché," I tell the stranger.
&&& All he wants to tell her is, "Care for me."
Monday, 22 March 2010
Chainsaw Calligraphy
So, because I'm very lazy this next piece of writing is very short ("very" is such a weak adjective). At least it's easy on the eyes and that. Kyna is pronounced Key-na by the way... you know how much I love the Irish. On with the show:
They are lying down on the bed.
"I love you. You know that right? Kyna tells Thaddaeus. He smiles at her and nods. He touches her arm. He feels the graze from the carpet on her elbow. He kisses her there. "Good," Kyna says, "As long as you know."
____________________________________________________
He is crying on the way back from the hospital.
He is lying on the bed. He is looking at a picture of her. He was still crying as he drank the water.
"I love you. You know that right?" Thaddaeus tells Kyna. He smiles at her and touches her face. He falls asleep.
____________________________________________________
He doesn't wake up.
They are lying down on the bed.
"I love you. You know that right? Kyna tells Thaddaeus. He smiles at her and nods. He touches her arm. He feels the graze from the carpet on her elbow. He kisses her there. "Good," Kyna says, "As long as you know."
____________________________________________________
He is crying on the way back from the hospital.
He is lying on the bed. He is looking at a picture of her. He was still crying as he drank the water.
"I love you. You know that right?" Thaddaeus tells Kyna. He smiles at her and touches her face. He falls asleep.
____________________________________________________
He doesn't wake up.
Wednesday, 17 March 2010
Saturday, 13 March 2010
This Night Has Opened My Eyes
The following piece of writing is inspired by the film Up, which nearly made me cry. No fucking joke. It hasn't got a title.
Her husband goes out. He doesn't bother to ease the front door shut. He just leaves it to slam, shacking the foundations of the house. She jumps with expectant shock. Her eyes stay wide open, like a new born baby's, seeing the world for the first time. Only when she hears him drive away does she blink. She sits for a moment longer, thinking no thoughts.
Standing up, she walks through the hall. She glances up at the empty stairs. She climbs, it should be a struggle, but it isn't. It's too easy and that's what makes it too hard. Edging the door in front of her open slowly, she steps lightly inside. She eases the door softly shut.
She starts to stare with wide moist eyes again. A new cot sits before her, polished and painted, taking pride of place in the centre of the room. It's perfect, like in those TV shows, magazines and dreams.
She feels her stomach.
She feels the hunger within.
She feels dead inside.
Her only nourishment comes from the salty tears trickling, creeping down her cheek.
In the kitchen she searches through cupboards. She finds what she's looking for. She fumbles with the packet of cigarettes, so expertly hidden from her own personal patriarch. She lights the selected cigarette on the second attempt. She inhales and exhales, breathing heavily and consistently all the time. It doesn't matter now. The stress floats away with the smoke. But she knows, that as soon as the life of the ember is stubbed out, the pain is born again.
Her husband goes out. He doesn't bother to ease the front door shut. He just leaves it to slam, shacking the foundations of the house. She jumps with expectant shock. Her eyes stay wide open, like a new born baby's, seeing the world for the first time. Only when she hears him drive away does she blink. She sits for a moment longer, thinking no thoughts.
Standing up, she walks through the hall. She glances up at the empty stairs. She climbs, it should be a struggle, but it isn't. It's too easy and that's what makes it too hard. Edging the door in front of her open slowly, she steps lightly inside. She eases the door softly shut.
She starts to stare with wide moist eyes again. A new cot sits before her, polished and painted, taking pride of place in the centre of the room. It's perfect, like in those TV shows, magazines and dreams.
She feels her stomach.
She feels the hunger within.
She feels dead inside.
Her only nourishment comes from the salty tears trickling, creeping down her cheek.
In the kitchen she searches through cupboards. She finds what she's looking for. She fumbles with the packet of cigarettes, so expertly hidden from her own personal patriarch. She lights the selected cigarette on the second attempt. She inhales and exhales, breathing heavily and consistently all the time. It doesn't matter now. The stress floats away with the smoke. But she knows, that as soon as the life of the ember is stubbed out, the pain is born again.
Thursday, 11 March 2010
I've Got Knives In My Eyes, I'm Going Home Sick
Oh hey, want to read a completely made up story? Then you might want to read "Girl At Train Station." I love casually flirting with girls on trains. It's based on a dream. Maybe. Or an experience that would be pretty cool. Something like that.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked. Smiling, cautiously, but politely as I looked down where the girl sat.
She gazed up at me, as if she was only half paying attention to my question. She gazed at my face a little longer.
"Sure." She spoke softly. She was reading.
Not enough pretty girls read. She was pretty.
I looked at the book she was reading, there was something about her that made me want to speak. A universal interest in literature and the art of words would probably rouse me to talk. The book was old, its spine badly bent and creased, the front cover worn down. Despite this the author of the collection of ragged paper was still visible. The authors name was Franz Kafka. I smiled out loud. This outburst of...something, knowing perhaps, or maybe satisfaction, I don't know...but it drew her attention away from the page. She looked at me shyly. There was so many ways to phrase the question I was inevitably going to ask, "Oh, I see you like Kafka?" or "Good choice, I like Kafka too. What's your favourite?" All of these endless options sounded stupid. I must have thought through a hundred, a million, different combinations of words to try and think of the right way to say the question. Words were gradually being pushed forwards by my tongue, towards my lips, that were, as I struggled to think, failing to hold the half finished thoughts back.
I can't remember what I said.
I probably erased it from my memory out of embarrassment.
Whatever I did say it seemed to have the desired effect, for we were soon in an in depth conversation about the context of "In The Penal Colony," which, in case you didn't know, my dearest reader, is a strangely beautiful story about capital punishment.
"A Dream" is her favourite. It's my favourite too. We talk.
We talk.
We talk.
Her eyes pierce me as the sun shines through them. The bench on which we sit beside each other is uncomfortable, but the conversation is not awkward. I can be a very awkward person. Art is my thing. When art is your thing it's very hard to have a human conversation. It means you are unwittingly pretentious. You write words in a completely different way to how you would usually talk. My vocabulary grows immensely when I sit down with pen and paper. Sarcasm and irony are all tricks I use to avoid being liked or being tricked into engaging in normal speech. Her eyes pierce me.
"I bet you're a real heart breaker," I tell her.
She smiles. She bites her bottom lip. This is her acknowledgment of my statement. Her eyes flick down for a moment. Not even that. I don't know how long a moment is. It might be just an unspecified amount of time that feels much longer than it actually is; in which case "a moment" would not be the right term to use here, because her eyes only flicked down for a very, very short period of time, less than a second at a guess.
"I bet you like heart breakers," she replies as her eyes glance back up and pierce me again. I go through the same motions as her automatically. Smile, bite my bottom lip and flick my eyes down for not quite a moment.
"I guess I do."
Her train pulled into the station and she got up from where she sat beside me. Her summer dress fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept across the platform as the incoming locomotive distorted the gentle air.
"I'll see you around," she said, closing her book, having carefully and elegantly placed her book-mark into the tattered collection of rough pages.
"Yeah," I said back, as I watched her long red hair come to a standstill from beneath her summer's hat, as the train finally came to a halt. I observed her as she climbed on board, minding the gap like the human-less voice from the public address system instructed her to do. As the train pulled away she looked out towards me. She smiled and waved. Her eyes pierce me.
"Do you mind if I sit here?" I asked. Smiling, cautiously, but politely as I looked down where the girl sat.
She gazed up at me, as if she was only half paying attention to my question. She gazed at my face a little longer.
"Sure." She spoke softly. She was reading.
Not enough pretty girls read. She was pretty.
I looked at the book she was reading, there was something about her that made me want to speak. A universal interest in literature and the art of words would probably rouse me to talk. The book was old, its spine badly bent and creased, the front cover worn down. Despite this the author of the collection of ragged paper was still visible. The authors name was Franz Kafka. I smiled out loud. This outburst of...something, knowing perhaps, or maybe satisfaction, I don't know...but it drew her attention away from the page. She looked at me shyly. There was so many ways to phrase the question I was inevitably going to ask, "Oh, I see you like Kafka?" or "Good choice, I like Kafka too. What's your favourite?" All of these endless options sounded stupid. I must have thought through a hundred, a million, different combinations of words to try and think of the right way to say the question. Words were gradually being pushed forwards by my tongue, towards my lips, that were, as I struggled to think, failing to hold the half finished thoughts back.
I can't remember what I said.
I probably erased it from my memory out of embarrassment.
Whatever I did say it seemed to have the desired effect, for we were soon in an in depth conversation about the context of "In The Penal Colony," which, in case you didn't know, my dearest reader, is a strangely beautiful story about capital punishment.
"A Dream" is her favourite. It's my favourite too. We talk.
We talk.
We talk.
Her eyes pierce me as the sun shines through them. The bench on which we sit beside each other is uncomfortable, but the conversation is not awkward. I can be a very awkward person. Art is my thing. When art is your thing it's very hard to have a human conversation. It means you are unwittingly pretentious. You write words in a completely different way to how you would usually talk. My vocabulary grows immensely when I sit down with pen and paper. Sarcasm and irony are all tricks I use to avoid being liked or being tricked into engaging in normal speech. Her eyes pierce me.
"I bet you're a real heart breaker," I tell her.
She smiles. She bites her bottom lip. This is her acknowledgment of my statement. Her eyes flick down for a moment. Not even that. I don't know how long a moment is. It might be just an unspecified amount of time that feels much longer than it actually is; in which case "a moment" would not be the right term to use here, because her eyes only flicked down for a very, very short period of time, less than a second at a guess.
"I bet you like heart breakers," she replies as her eyes glance back up and pierce me again. I go through the same motions as her automatically. Smile, bite my bottom lip and flick my eyes down for not quite a moment.
"I guess I do."
Her train pulled into the station and she got up from where she sat beside me. Her summer dress fluttered lightly in the breeze that swept across the platform as the incoming locomotive distorted the gentle air.
"I'll see you around," she said, closing her book, having carefully and elegantly placed her book-mark into the tattered collection of rough pages.
"Yeah," I said back, as I watched her long red hair come to a standstill from beneath her summer's hat, as the train finally came to a halt. I observed her as she climbed on board, minding the gap like the human-less voice from the public address system instructed her to do. As the train pulled away she looked out towards me. She smiled and waved. Her eyes pierce me.
Sunday, 21 February 2010
The Inherent Purity Of Rain In May
Two posts in one day, it's almost as if I've got a history essay to do. Here's a little video of Jack Kerouac reading from On The Road. I made the mistake of reading through the comments as well, which is never advisable on any site where people express their own opinions. But then again, that's just my opinion.
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