A capillary hint of red ice (and every sarcophagi event in between)

It was young at first,
Holding the cup to my lips,
Cold wood.

Brushing it slowly with a gradual snail trail of drool appearing from the sombre saliva of my lips.
After this I place the cup on the table slowly,
Watching the essential tremor in my frail hyper-mobile fingers soften the delicate curves of the pink flower tugging the fourth leg of the table.

In annoyed voice,
Clutched calves and trembled headaches,
Ten teeth.

I pace towards the middle,
Seeing the eyes of the CD case still,
Not allowing the will of another portrait to assimilate my expression,
The reflection in the night time window shows a child with a distorted face,
Covered in bum fluff and clogged white wine.

Curled up demise scent,
Awaken ethereal,
Sleep again.

The child needs a wank,
Far too early surely they must develop a little more,
The radiator sobbing at their little hatchlings,
A child once died because they were impaled on the tip of a radiator where the guard was removed and she pierced her lung,
Although she survived.
But inside an artificial arm within an artificial artificial,
Which is double negative (in case it over went your head),
Therefore vibrancy exhumed her,
As she gave butterfly kisses to her nose.

Dragging elbow fat,
Dining room dresser tidy,
Slum minim.

Slopes are squawking to the wild dust underneath your feet,
Performing a Vajrayana footwork,
Droning out the words:
"Who brought me here?"
The book on my table has the title Set in Stone,
Clearly showing that my mothers taste in books is rather dull.

Native orgy chime,
Working to the mice field,
Come cell.

Oh you made it,
Just in time,
For our speech is,
Not whine,
And align,
My eyes with your friend,
Your lilly assessed friend,
Is going to hush my glass table,
To many cup rings,
So many cup rings,
Chortle if you will but you can't avoid the fact,
That you're so fucking sad that you can relate to cup rings,
To be brutally honest a metaphor so void of life and so inanimate would scare the hell out of me if I relate to it.
Yes I'm pretty fucking scared.

Hair parting crown sets,
Baldness potential is nigh,
Full lick.

I had enough of the cymbals over riding my mind so I spilt some scarves on the floor,
I hope the constant cataphoric reference to myself isn't off putting,
You are important,
We are important,
You should be glad you're alive because you're incredibly lucky to exist within the human race,
Is it just a coincidence we happen to have descended from the winning race of carnival flavoured monkey popcorn?
Yes.
Yes it is.

I love you person,
I love you with all tuck shops,
Diphtheria.

I tried to be kind to your envelope,
But it disintegrated in the letter box,
When it was inserted it came at me like a blue tit,
Wringing my hoody-weak neck,
I find the jet that pumps air into the swimming pool and place my pelvic area near it,
It felt like the wind wished to reproduce with me,
And for a minute I felt happy.

Material tickle,
Microphone tight Sibelius,
Bach wards.

In labour giving birth to the eye of a needles endorsed with it's own camel,
You can't join the club if you can't go through the eye of a needle,
I guess you better remove some of your body fat to get through,
Materialism liposuction?
This is where you all say "Yes please",
And we begin with the joy of an Indo-European chef.



But wait inside my trainers please,
If you're in my shoes you can see that I can hurt you too,
And how I look feminine by writing in italics,
That turns the fuck out of me,
In the sense that it turns me off by removing the fuck.

Those words scrawled on a bathroom seat in my own home written by me,
And when I read them I recoiled in surprise when I realised that,
I sound like a mentally disturbed orangatang that ran out of prozac,
I'm not a fucking conformed emo,
Therefore I shouldn't feel such foolish things,
Depression is for Dawkins rejects that do not adapt to the selfish gene,
Carry on my forward tongue.

Seizure Maurice shook!
Left handed scissors green grip,
Pong long.

I sometimes wonder what my id would do if I stood upon the fountain and shouted:

"One day all of the people over here will most probably be happy in their lives and these washed up teenagers like I who think we're unhappy will morph into people that think we're foolish for thinking pessimistically but at the same time we're unable to look back. Could we not be losing some our introspectiveness this way? Wear your fucking seatbelts!! Don't let the mind collapse into a Mixolydian crack cleanser! The superhuman must arise and tell us all to manically become benign before people like me screw it up for you in our passive aggressive resistance to life until we eventually are stuck in dead end corner jobs with random underground spouts of creativity with one little fan calling us brilliant but the rest of the world thinking we're a non-nonsensical piece of scrooge!! I need you to take the brain and lobotomise it!! Rape it of all mental ideas before there is another uprising!!! Just touch the white glove with a purple flower pattern on my hand until it weeds and alerts your nose with summer!!"

Of course I most likely won't say that.

Um yeah and they say.
Err no for the...what? My head,
Tranquil.

Loop the sound of an early 20's women in mid giggle until you can hear the resemblance to a flock of red skinned peacocks,
If I was nestled in your knees I wouldn't feel the need to leave the hum of the factory.
Looking back I was only the creak of the gate to his wail of the pond.
I couldn't compete with drinking a half drunk glass of father's white wine.

Reader #1: "This is so pointless and rambly I feel like I'm reading a retarded person learn lots of words they found in the dictionary. Go fuck yourself you pseudo intellectual new age emotional teenager!! If I wanted to read crap I would be cottaging right now!!"

Reader #2: "Your writing is so amazing!! I don't have a fucking clue what you're talking about but I'll say I like it because all the words make me feel like I'm going to have an epileptic fit!!"

Reader #3: "Awesome!!! Good luck in the contest!! You're really talented!! Now let me blindly praise some other creativity that I also think is shit while you wallow in the fact that someone actually gave you some fucking attention even though I'm probably equally sad as you are by trying to attain writing that will stimulate my brain in a chromatic onslaught of blunt trauma."

Your best bet is to find things in poetry that the writer didn't intend,
That way they can retrieve a taste from their lack of tongue,
As it springs roots and grows strong pulsating veins,
It can then caress your creative acts,
Lovely system to sink your fruit pastel endured teeth into.
You don't get it do you?
No,
Neither do I to be brutally honest,
I'm afraid there are a lot of feelings we can't depict for ourselves without resorting to dramatic actions,
Why else do criminals get such a dopamine rush from murdering innocent people,
With the plastic bag creating early cot death,
For a pensioner and it's cat.

Tome foot calm vauxhall,
Baritone synthesiser,
Throne grass.

You know when you look at yourself and ponder what you are?
Whether you really are who you say you are?
Whether there is something inside you telling you that you are something else,
Not in a "I don't want to be this person" way,
But in the way that a part of your brain is not accepting what you are,
It creates a clash of ideals and turns you into a French woman going to see a Jungian therapist every week so you can scream and so that I can hear you screaming at my father from downstairs,
Kindly kinder surprise egg for you.
I heard she wears glasses.
I ramble because the feeling I'm trying to explain,
Just...aaah!! Can't explain it,
It's an absolute threshold of confusion and baton chasing USB ports,
I would play the music,
Box if I,
Could but,
It's rather simple in,
The sense that it won't allow the,
Nostril sniff the nair on his shoulders.
A static hiss resembles the visual affect of a black and white film.
Smile resembles the mental idea of hitting a wall and falling into permenant gaze of archaic lean borders.

Border = 12,24

I adore all who have thoughts,
I just fucking hate the fact that I have thoughts that sound so pointlessly cliched that most will punch someone else to make them feel better,
But pacifism was I passed with a distinction in grade 8,
I also got 100% on the aural.

(Love my fifty pence coin please do,
It's smiling at the cones around your flabby posters)

It was young at first,
Holding the cup to my lips,
Blow torch.

Now that we're old no?
Streaking the prunes and lice heads,
Hug me.