Sunday, 29 May 2011

Exit. Chapter 3

That’s like when you never liked that guy but there's rumors and everybody remembers both of you kissing, even if they had not seen it. It is painted upon the mind, maybe because I had wanted it, maybe God wanted it, but then it broke as if I was fourteen, but then I was, that's when you start knowing that you don't know who he is.

My name is Roberta, I might've killed you if you'd seen me, because I wouldn't want to know you, I wouldn't want to know anyone, I'd take Jonny and everything with me on a stranded island and none of you would be there, the thoughts of yours which shall judge me, the subconsciousness which is keeping me from being who I am, because you'll judge anyway.

I was Bo for people who I trusted, Bonnie for people who liked calling me that and whom I trusted, who were even fewer. Roberta for family, teachers and people who I disliked. Simple, easy. Oh, Graham and Jonny were free to call me Bo or Bonnie, how they wished. Jonny said Bonnie and Graham agreed. They were in my head, they were next to me, they held my hand. They held my hand threw out my life, hugging me from the pain, as I dug my chin into their shoulders or chests. Something like guardian angels, only better looking and cheesy to dream about.

The headphones shall mute out what the uncle shall say and they do, because he tells me something I do not want to hear. I don't, the music blanks it out, as if I were holding my eyes and ears and chewing bones.

I lie that my luggage is easy.

The talk show is on, so he fades along with the possibility of not breaking my back as if it were fake wooden chopsticks to bite in a state of eating sausages.

I pull on, soon enough to see the big fancy, known entrance in front of me. I ignore several classmates sitting in a circle, talking, about how their vacations went and how many hot guys they had seen. But then maybe they’re passing weed, slowly dragging it rolling into hysterical fits of laughter discussing how nice the new Barbie is as they shorten her skirt and fix her eyebrows as my muscles rot and I become the new mocking target.

It’s not like when I open the doors I see stretched out faces, holding their hands in the air in a silent scream or sudden affection. I walk past, not bothering if the images that I glued to them are real or not.

I call it mental breakdown.


Because that one second, as if fate was laughing at me, I saw him or I had drawn him, singing to The Doors, I'd fuck Morrison, Jonny let's do it, I'll be on top, you'll be stroking him, fingering him, we'd do him.

He was in that circle, Morrison, someone who Jonny didn't want to fuck, so they both stand up and gasp, covering their butt holes, no more anal. Graham's specs laughing as he wiggled his feet, his untied shoelace making notice as a green flag, hey, babe, I'm eco, fuck me with a used condom, we need to have plastic. My Graham leans towards the black converse, identical to mine, only bigger and ties it. His hazel with red tint looks up and meet me for a second. He blinks and I just ran past, ignoring how heavy my luggage was. The luggage are my wings now, let me burn.

He was here.

The croak in the throat as everything is blurry and I can no longer breathe, even if I don’t think about it I can taste it pulsing threw my veins in a mute echo that he is here.

I could see him stand up, come up towards me and run a hand through my hat, taking it off revealing the five neatly dyed short steaks forming some sort of messed up star on my head. I could see how I wanted to run my fingers past his temple, touch his cheekbones, brush my index finger on the corner of his lips and end at his jaw line.

I wanted to chew, to be a disgrace and a fuck to Graham.

Just like that.

I did it in my head, dazing out in the lobby, my heart turning into milk, I am my breasts, I shall feed children, I am a fuck, to escape the running.

Show me how you kiss, do it.

Chew it.

I could repeat it in my head, I could imagine it now, I could imagine a kiss. I could make it how I wanted, for myself nobody to observe.

No corrupted by the media souls desperate for some horrid looking blonde or brunette thirty year olds playing fifteen year old machos, who knew how to kiss in front of the camera that would heat up your cheeks and send butterflies to the stomach.

To make you produce bubble gum from your vagina, expired.

I grabbed my keys after telling who I was easily. I did it without shrugging, asking if Marcia was already here, my roomie, knowing that she wouldn’t be here for five hours, she shags alone with a dork.

The room is left out for me and nobody else for the five hours. I don’t bother unpacking, as I curl into a ball, my iPod slowly hinting the need to charge. I watch him sing out last chords in a familiar singing voice before the screen goes black. Three hours. Two to go, as I put my savior to charge and as soon as he has enough energy I stuff the headphones back into my ears.

I can see him storming into my room.

“Hey, my name is Graham. You are the prettiest girl I have ever seen.”

Let me laugh.


I removed two chracters, nearly, Evan(former Julio) and Marcie. I disliked the scenes with them, so more will be crossed out, but most likely Evan's role will be kept.

(2015): This is surely a product of it's teenage time.

Wednesday, 25 May 2011

Graham Gray

Once upon a time on the top of the highest hill, a small house stood. It was as black as the cloud which hung heavily above it. The house was nearly a dark grey unlike the pearl white it once was. On some spots the paint seemed to be a pitch black, a colour it would soon be. The door creaked open and a small boy headed outside.

His hair hung neatly, as if he was straight from the shower and combed. His cheeks held no redness, like kids would have whenever they’d be embarrassed. But then, he wasn’t, maybe his eyes wouldn’t show it, but he was.

He felt uneasy every time he’d have to walk out, into the pouring rain from the black cloud above.

Did he have a name?

Yes he had. Only it changed from Willy White as the cloud came. Willy White couldn’t escape from his lips anymore, now a Graham Gray escaped and a Benjamin Black seemed to appear in his mind. How come he was getting so black now? The white cape he wore was now a grey with spots of black with only several parts of cloth left white. Day by day they would fade away into a soft gray, then an intense grey before growing darker and darker to form a big black spot.

Why was this happening? Even Willy’s mood seemed darker, his smile darker, a frown replacing that smile he once held, his white hair growing dark and not as thick. Only several steaks near the ears remained white with black ones around them, drowning them.

His sky blue eyes seemed to lose color, colorless yesterday and now one pitch black while the
other was gray.

He walked rather fast wishing to be back into his room and watch the walls grow black, sometimes helping them by pressing his palms against the white walls. It was like the blackness was inside him, waiting to be freed or rather wanting white, anything white screaming of hunger.

Why was this happening? He kept thinking and thinking when the first steaks of gray showed but as soon as they darkened he seemed to stop caring as much. The thoughts would cross his head but not much. But once they would he tried to fight the careless which was in him.

Nobody seemed to visit him these days, he never helped now. Why would he? Why would he when he was busy busy busy those first days trying to figure out the mystery behind the cloud. But once he would decline something would turn gray or black depending on the way he’d disagree.
Willy walked on, trying not to look at anybody in the city.

“Willy!”Somebody called out for him.

“It’s Graham.” He blurred out, feeling a light need to correct it into Benjamin. But then he wasn’t fully black, was he? So there for he was no Benjamin Black, for now. “I have no time!”

There was no apologize, but there was the quick turning around with no good bye.

Now another black steak appeared instead of the gray one, hanging against his cheek.

He needed to find a way out of this so that his coat would not be drenched in rain, so that walls would be white back again and he wouldn’t be spending his time on brainstorming himself.

“Did you hear, sweetheart? My cat is cured; she now sings all day long, dances and brings joy!” Willy heard a part of the conversation and made a rather sudden stop.

“Yes, the girl in the forest? Indeed, she can cure anything!” Her friend smiled happily, feeling happy for the problem’s end.

He had indeed heard about that girl! Who wouldn’t have? Willy blamed himself for not thinking about her earlier. Why hadn’t he thought about this? He didn’t bother to thank them instead he began to run towards the forest.

Soon his problems would finally be solved? Why wait? Willy White didn’t bother with the lady he knocked down, feeling his coat heavier afterwards. Like a sudden hit, he felt his coat have a new black spot. Like paint it seemed to grow on the fabric, as he rushed past several people not bothering to answer their greeting. The thought of being freed kept him going, he wanted to see that witch girl, to see him go white again, to get rid of that blackness which was annoying him, which was easing him at the same time.

Oh how happy he’d be when it would be over!

He kept on running, ignoring the tree branches in his way, the countless greetings, the endless cries for help the solution of his problem was getting nearer and they dare distract him at a time like this?!

Maybe several minutes passed, maybe hours, maybe days, maybe years. Was it the reason that his coat felt tight now or was it due to the black spots begging him to stop and turn around and watch his house turn as black as he soon would be or rather as the cloud above him?

There it is. A small house, which could be labeled ordinary, but it’s not. The dark forest behind it makes a heavy contrast making its old bright red paint look new, despite it peeling in several places. Its bright yellow roof looks like the bright sun above, a bit too bright, maybe it was newly painted, but that wasn’t what made Willy wonder. What made him wonder was the small girl sitting on the doorstep.

There she was.

Flowing red hair like flames, eyes like emeralds and that pointy black hat on her head with a matching black wand resting behind her ear. Her white dress seemed to be out of place but it was something she couldn’t live without. Even her wand could get a better replacement but no dress was better than the one she was wearing. After a while the white dress, as if by magic seemed like the most regular thing to wear with your black pointy hat, that a sudden urge to get a white dress seemed to pop instantly in your head. But that wasn’t the only mysterious and weird thing about her.

Before she made eye contact with Willy she seemed to be looking into nothing, with her lips moving slowly, without a sound. Was it a spell? A predicament for tomorrow? Who knew?

But as soon as she saw him walk up to her a warm smile appeared on her lips as she mouthed the last unknown word into nothing.

She studied Willy carefully, as if afraid to miss some important detail of his appearance. The red head looked at him from head to toe. She opened her mouth to speak, but he stopped her.

“I need to get rid of this!” He exclaimed, feeling himself attracted to the young girl. Then a light blush came across his cheeks.

What was his problem?

He kept studying herself silently, watching the wind play with her hair, as she tilted her head to one side.

“I’ll need lilies-“

“Anything else? Maybe something you need for another potion in making? Anything? Anything at all?”

Words run from his mouth, despite his efforts to stop them.

Why did he care?

Oh, he cared.

Melissa, the witch only smiled, looking at her boots for a while, thinking. She mouthed several more phrases or even sentences in her head, not tearing her eyes off Willy White. Her emerald eyes were glued to his two-coloured until she stopped mouthing the unknown words. Then she blinked several times and smiled lightly.

“Lilies, toads, roses, feathers…” The list just went on and a small grin seemed to play upon her lips.

Willy just nodded, memorizing everything in his head. The locations as if by magic appeared inside his head and he ran off, deep into the woods, not looking back. He needed the ingredients, he needed to be cured. There were no exceptions he needed everything she asked for. Willy didn’t regret when he fell into the pond, stretching out for that big green toad or when he nearly got attacked by forest bees while tearing that lily with its roots.

There it was. He ran thru the list in his head making sure he did not forget anything. Willy’s hair had made no change, but then just getting the ingredients wasn’t even half the deal, was it? He kept calmed himself as he walked back to Melissa, watching her whisper, yes it was now possible, to hear her voice. She raised her hand asking him not to interrupt her.

He felt rather impatient and tapped his feet, making her lose her focus. Melissa asked him to stop several times repeating the spell from the beginning, but Willy kept interrupting. He was getting impatient, how long had he been waiting? Even if it was few minutes, he could feel annoyance take over him. Why was she taking so long? He did not have the time. Willy wanted all of this to be over now! Was it the blackness controlling him? He did not know, as his feelings seemed to be all mixed up, even the love he once held for Melissa seemed to be gone, gone like the white strands in his hair.

“Fix it!” He shouted throwing the bag full of everything the witch had asked.

Melissa looked at him, not showing any surprise, her eyes giving out a mysterious smile, before feeling the bag hit her body.

Then a bright flash appeared. From he did it come from, Willy could not tell. Was it from him? Was it from the girl? Everything just went… was it black? Was it white? Willy White could not tell. Could he move? He felt nothing. Had he broken all of his bones at once? Was he paralyzed?

Was he blind?

What did he do wrong?

He got the ingredients.

He did everything she asked.

“Sorry, Willy.”

Was it Melissa?

He tried to open his eyes.


Benjamin Black.


That is a favourite among my relatives. Yeah, I show my work to people from while to while, used to anyway before I decided to do a full exposure during the summer. It's going to be a year soon, wow.

This is actually my first ever written fairytale considered to be a fairytale or to be submitted to a fairytale magazine, didn't get published, so here it is.

I wouldn't say that it ranks high, as my favourite work would beee Orange or the new Path or something else. As said, favourite among the readers, so here it is.

It carries a smiliar theme and I guess has fragments of an early graspthesanity-esque tint.

Oh, on the poll, Jonny Greenwood is winning.

Dudes, I'd shag Norman.

Balcony Scene

Sunday, 22 May 2011

Exit. Chapter 2

I turned my head towards the window as the weird out of the in the mind family uncle seemed to ignore the fact that my headphones were in my ears white cords sticking out of my hair, wires as if I was a cyber to shoot meat or some other monster made out of metal which had to include wires in his construction or defeat.

He was the only reason I wanted to return to my dreadful town of sick childhood memories, as he'd be in the pile, sitting with a cane, licking the borders of the country with the throne. He'd open the hands which hold war, until he'd blow with the lights knocked out.

Like the credits.

I just sat there barely noticing that the credits actually began to roll. Romeo and Juliet, we'd be one.

With Greenwood, as he'd hurl me on the bed, because that's what he does and he kisses my stomach, harassing my thoughts to put me on his shoulders as I shall see him kiss me in the reflection of mind. A monologue he'd give in a slit throat.

He'd be love.

He'd be hung.

He'd be taken from the sight of evil in the mornings to shield in the night. Oh, rest, deep knight.

Colour the bare walls.

I'm scared.

Let me go home to the birds on the grounds, as we'd lay looking at magpies and I'd kiss Jonny's line.

The walls would be bare and I'd be asked about the lines or the faces they'd have to greet, the relatives, but I'd say nothing, as I'd chew the belief.

I told nothing.

I'd get asked.

Lots of loss.

Soon enough I mastered to answer nothing and to fall down on my bed calmly thinking of the black head without anyone disturbing with their curiosity or endless suggestions, advices and help. We’d break up eventually, if it was in real life, but here where I was God and I was the one making the rules, he never did. We faded into a parallel universe, if I’d find someone else, but I’d return to him in the end. I'd like a bunch of flowers, but the tree wouldn't die with the words and allergic leaves to french. Jonny would be sitting there on my bed, his hair on his eyes as I’d storm into my room and spill my heart out after some other break-up. He’d always be there, unlike some real bastard boyfriend from reality. He'd stroke my neck. Tension. We'd fuck. That’s why I liked him.

I closed my eyes, leaning my head against his shoulder, telling him about Graham, as he bit his lip in jealousy. I'd look to kiss his brow and bite it off. But then he knew that it was going to be a quick fling and soon enough I’d be back with the ribbed sense. Because reality and the risk of breaking into it, is rather risky, no matter how much I wanted. Jonny nodded at my thoughts, a small smile upon his lips. I smiled back.

But now, Graham was taking my thoughts and my free time, licking it all off, overcoating it, as we'd lay, him above and Jonny watching, clapping.

I guess for that occasion and the fact it was in my head and rather personal, I’d jump from my daily clothes for the occasion. I had two different attires. Not that different actually.

Version 1:

-Purple hoodie, unzipped. If it’s amazingly cold cashmere hoodie same colour.

-Tight jeans. Screw cold. If ill and teeth chattering cold the wool pants mum finds ideal for her adorable daughter.

-Plain white t-shirt, if it is cold long sleeved white shirt, if amazingly cold wool sweater. Yes, if the ice age comes I shall be prepared with two wool sweaters on myself.

-High top black converse. Cold? Black docs. Or docs if I feel like it.

Version 2:

-Red hoodie, unzipped or halfway. If it’s amazingly cold cashmere brick red hoodie. Reminder: next time I go shopping change the irritating brick coloured hoodie to a calmer red.

-Skinny jeans. Another annoying pair of wool pants only this time by my auntie who is a wannabe clothes designer, who actually made it to fashion TV, ONCE.

-Plain light blue shirt with a v-cut. If cold aka winter long sleeved light blue shirt. The Day After Tomorrow comes to reality? Light blue wool sweater. No need to hide in a public library burning first editions. I’ll be skiing outside. With Jonny. With Graham. With an orgy upon my teeth.

-Purple converse, high tops. Hand drawn black stars on the converse. Winter coming back? Blue and Purple docs with stars.

Must haves:

-Scribbles on both arms, depending on mood how much the skin will be affected.

-Unknown dark coloured tuque.

That was it. I quickly took out a pen as my uncle was exchanging polite mouthing with some other driver who nearly hit us. French. I want all people to fuck, as I'd watch and I'd tell them what to do, as I'd blindfold them, stroke their cocks. Soon enough another star was drawn on my left wrist. Without hesitation I stuffed it back into my bag, as if nothing happened, shrugging at my uncle as he complained aloud. His cheeks were red hoping that I did not hear ‘that impropriate bad word for little girls to use’, which I had known since I was six. But then isn’t that irritating making a big deal out of bad words? Then don’t use them if you want them to be kept inside yourself.


I've been writing poetry lately, a lot of it and my new novel, which was initially novel then one-shot turned novel.

I like the sexual tension Roberta's been feeling, feels more real unlike the cheesiness it had and yes, Roberta is one of my favoirite characters.

And yes, everyone is.

Wednesday, 18 May 2011


You're the creator
Of something
You do not want to be
The cape out of my skin
Peel it off
Make my skeleton freeze
As the face would fall
Fingers burning the eyes
The chandelier above
You hung it
Back when nothing had changed
When I had watched
And the prose were gone
Let the structure collapse
A few naked strips

Everything Should Be In This Title

Monday, 16 May 2011

Exit. Chapter 1

I meet him again tomorrow, it's not some ridiculous firework explosion which people describe and the butterflies are long eaten, I just stare and that is to be the feeling, with bigger expectations and my cheeks hint that. He pretends to look away and I hope that my senses are telling me the truth. That it is some mutual shyness with blabbering buttons in the middle. I try to force out a smile, knowing that I had no intentions to make this platonic feeling into something else. It's just mutual staring that would result in orgasm, maybe. I wouldn't wake, I'd fall.

I liked platonic love. It didn’t take my time, it gave me hope. I'd paint not knowing the qualities or seeing the wrapper instead of the breaking teeth candy. It gave me that small sprout of hope while I listened to my roommate’s sobs about how her latest boyfriend dumping her or the other way, as the process went on, as I slept, as my own just circulated both of us spinning around with childish laughter and childish platonic love among our bodies.

In the end I give out no smile as he fixes his glasses.

But I get one on my face after he passes me. A rather long and face hurting one. He won't see it, just the unknown crowd who might hold someone else, someone whom I've read about in fairytales.

I keep him inside me for seconds, for minutes, for hours, for days. I know that I can easily strode onto months and years because so far none of my platonic loves ever turned out into a real relationship. I’d pout until I’d find another so-called victim to my thoughts as I fall into my bed of dreams or I’d chicken out if I’ll see him gazing at me just as starry as I’d do. As he'd build more mes and I'd build more of those. We'd never know.

Then it wouldn’t be as private, it would involve hand holding, kissing, making-out, dating and stuff which wasn’t just for me to share I’d have to share them with that person, something I despite to do. I'd have to weaken the love I hold, because then it would go outside and see the belief that love is a second.

Like that one time when I was stupid enough to play Seven Minutes in Heaven. Who plays that while they are fourteen? Apparently my class does. Now I have to walk past the guy as fast as possible, because he knows the inside of my mouth, because I had wanted to. I don't think he remembers me, so let it be two-sided.

Why do I have to share?

I want that memory, that feeling devolve inside me, not concerning not touching anyone else. It’s mine, it’s mine to throw away, it’s fully mine to pick up, if I feel like it. There's no one real attached to it, because I question my subconsciousness.

That’s why I steal glances at him, as he goes away to fade in the three walking past people, as I think of names for him. But then I prefer him without a name, like that abstract prince on a white horse, only for me he is the tall guy with specs in a dark unbuttoned coat. I check, he has buttons, but I even run through my brother’s magazine. Nope, nothing about wearing your coat open is a cool thing. He is the next cool thing which you stick onto your wall and lick.

I went to bed earlier after that encounter.

Not because I was tired due to the constant feeling. But because I wanted everybody to bog off, as they seemed to be asking about my personal life if there was any young man I liked. I laid down, undressed, pajamas ruffling my body, as the ceiling hugged me back and tried to kiss him.

The image of him fixing his specs would come to mind as his hazel eyes looked up, trying to concentrate on the cloud above. His eyes weren’t hazel, they had a unhealthy red tint in the hazel. No, he didn’t resemble a vampire ready to press a kiss upon my neck before biting my skin, giving me some eternity I would long for, to stop feeling the loss of time. Instead he looked completely human-like in his coat, shoes and scarf which appeared as it got colder.

He was more human than 98% of the world's population by his mere looks.

I’d lay down, sometimes headphones in my ears, as I’d imagine everything up to our first encounter. One day I’d imagine him walk up to me, ask me for a date.

And I'd say yes to sit there alone, eating the croissant as he'd come and I'd be croissant.

The next day I’d imagine us bumping into each other, then out of the blue he’d say that do I have lullaby written on the back of my palm with a miniature Robert Smith drawn? I’d nod blushing lightly, like the female protagonists usually do in stupid romantic comedies.

I am the tragedy, so be my sin.

I'd kiss.

Afterwards we’d walk past each other for half of our lives after three unsuccessful marriages that we have nothing to lose. We'd have kids in between to blow, as the petals would fall on his face for him to stroke my lips with his tongue, the glasses falling off. We’d have three children Alex, Jonathan and D’arcy. Then we’d have a whole, no, three kinder gardens of grandchildren. An arc to build and sell by our children's health.

On the last three days I didn’t see him up to the point that I stood near the music store where I worked, practically praying to see him. I do not believe in the light above, as it leaks from the sewers. Nothing. I chewed on my bottom lip, giving out a sigh, knowing, in my head that he couldn’t make it due to an arm he broke.

As if that was the bad thing. My relatives practically jumped out of their skin, muttering that it was over some guy. Again, all in my head. Some arguing that I was too young in my sixteen, others that I should be quick before all nice guys are taken as if they are clothes on sale, which resemble those which appeared in last season’s Vogue. But I'd have to change the seasons by chopping off the sleeves, until I'd be standing naked ready to scream and my head bald. I excuse myself silently, knowing that they were arguing over me in front of me, but my presence was not required.

The image of the person is there.

I struggle if I should give him a name or not which results a sleepless last night before I return back to boarding school, finally. My relatives cry a fake river before deposing me in the car with my uncle. I muffle his questions and answers by listening to music, which was a good creation for me because I could mute out the whole world with its stupidity. I watched him, trying not to laugh or raise an eyebrow as he tilted his head backwards, sideways towards me, jerking a finger in the air, not watching the road.

Maybe I should call him Graham.

But then he didn’t look as geeky, he didn’t resemble a Graham, only his specs did. Maybe hair colour, but nothing else. His glasses weren’t as thick, his hair longer a cheeky delighted grin sometimes spread on the face under his straight nose under the powder.


Roberta is more controversial now, after a few changes and I'd also like to jote that I barely delete anything, all I do is add different scenes.

There's the new poll on the side.

(2015): This is very odd to revise, yet here I am. Also I wrote this right after Papercut and started around Christmas, when Papercut was finished. It's odd to add backstory now, years later, the guy Roberta meets in this chapter was based off the fact that I would bump into this guy throughout all of my summer art school lessons while heading there and I used that here, really. Just adding, since I like talking about backstory even if now, I'm reading it and I see the realism but I understand that I was capturing someone else entirely and a different gender as well. But either way, I guess it's a good read for whoever wants it or is scrolling to my older stories, here with you xD

Chapter 2

Tuesday, 10 May 2011


Why don't you spit out the itch, onto the crowd which awaits some hurl from the stage, as the melody flows with a pair of dyed nails around the neck. And who's above who? Is it just a pair of glances as the backstage is some lost fragment of an eaten orb from her hands, well, why won't she feed me, just because I had declined. The reaction and the realization are the ones which hold the bottle, as we both drink from it to realize it's the same top.

It's harder to create when you're complete.

That's why the distance is held.

So something that we lack is described and is used as the tongue shivers, as I look above trying to see you above me, you're too high up, so why don't you fall down?

What about when you had tried and I had to sit, locked, trying to get you out, locking the door, feeling the scent of cigarettes behind and receiving no pleasure from the wife, but rather the teenage caught in the thirties outside, with the legs crossed behind, maybe you had your head against the wooden door.

You told me once you took a knife and started cutting your door, so that you could get out without using the handle.

I imagined you above me, the knife, splitting your bottom lip, blood trailing down into your v-cut, as I kept my hands to myself and you'd kiss me, tearing my stomach, to take what I had for breakfast and then you'd slide down, something cheesier than lunch.

You had to bang some more, three times an hour, cigarette after cigarette, I think I even opened the door, to see a pair of hazel eyes drawn on the eyelids, as the lips were held open, as I could fling my tongue beneath and defeat the tension so that it would fall to your legs, disturbing as my tongue on your cheek, grin.

I know you'd hold me, knowing that it happens brief if ever at all.

I remember you stood there, your legs crossed, I wonder if you can blow smoke rings, I never could, I never bothered, the possibilities muted by the songs and the pair of eyes, as if you expected me to be a mirror, but you traced my chest anyway, as if you'd step through, hair, now long, falling between the lips, so that we wouldn't catch anything out of each other's mouth, no denial and betrayal.

I remember you asked me, that one time when we laid why people photograph themselves naked, you didn't remember, so it was ok to touch until you'd close your eyes, the amount of liquid enough to make you vomit later and cry, as I picked up your hair, as everything poured out with the hidden fragments of myself.

You kept crying, knowing that all would be erased and my thought shall never be a sin.

I replied saying that the people wanted to be naked.

You nodded.

I took off my shirt, you exposed, beneath, as I traced my tongue down, not touching your lips and you had thrown your arms around me, legs beneath and something about you hinted that my tongue'd better be up, stroking your eyes.

You had woken up then, my shirt revealing your t-shirt, you took a pair of scissors, cutting off your lips, for them to fall, your mouth now a hole.

You took a needle and a big green thread, a colour you never wore and sewed it, your eyes closed, as the t-shirt bleached out as it were yellow before and I watched, as you closed your eyes, the sharpened edges helping to straighten your eyelashes.

The fear upon me, as I looked and would see you above me, the flower beneath, as if it were two and the image of the wife above, hanging as it were a praying Jesus and not some girl who was praised yesterday, causing the girl in front of me ask why the fuck did she have a tattoo on her buttocks, as if it were a remainder of something magnificent.

Then the thread, a purple one, started losing itself upon your jaw, revealing the polka dotted pattern beneath, as I sat up, my chest exposed and you had kissed it.

The tension gone and the thoughts upon your head as if it were a crown, my mind never foggy from alcohol just fear with countless stories to use against your throat as a razor.

I told you to stop it, knowing how to slit my wrists, as I'd pin you to the couch, tie your mouth, never touching it, even if my tongue were out and I'd take a kitchen knife and press it into the skin, the green scales falling off, revealing a story after a story, as I'd stick it deeper, reaching the bone, so that a string would be heard, my own skin would collapse, as you'd be there, you're eyelashes as blades and you'd grin, as I'd remove everything, the liver a colour green.

The colour you dislike, I painted it that way.

I woke up once, and cut my chest, up to the line between my legs and took everything out one by one, painting it with oil paint. I failed a degree in art, did I tell you that? I cut the canvas in half along with a person's head, the eyes my white as I had traced his teeth against the remains of the canvas pressing the holes, as I had felt tension and I had stroked myself, the hair behind, curly, as you'd seen, before you held my head in front of the mirror, not touching my lips and mouth, your fingers upon my cheeks, as you dug them in and I had kissed my reflection.

Everyone watched, as I came upon the walls, exhausted and upon the split dead corpus and it had been beautiful.

Art gives you the best orgasm you can think of, as blood deals as lube and the music instruments are some forgotten promise if all you need a need which no one sees or maybe I had imagined myself to be one, because the brushes were taken aside from me, a guitar instead.

I could stick it inside you, even your mouth, your ear, watching your eyes get covered in strings, as I'd play along with the last beats no one really needs and I shall be labeled as sick, as some melancholy shall take over the world around, maybe then I'd kiss you and not the wife which my life had given me with the children I cannot touch.

So can I open the door and see you exposed, as I took the last bottle of green paint, tracing it into my mouth and eating it as if it were the yoghurt you eat just to get the taste of it upon my lips to suck, as I kept my fingers inside, the rust, the snow, falling off as I'd wonder what eternity is along with the attraction you hold, as if we were pulling each other into a song.

Hey, you're above.

Hey, I'm above.

Hey, were not there yet.

Let there be a crisis of genre as the time falls into a pair of golden locks you'd hold upon your teeth, brackets to protect the food you chew.

Let it be me.

Let me ride you until you gag

I want to be the woman

I want to be mad at you for nothing

I want to be proved fake

I want to be the camel which dies

I want to be chewed










I want to shoot my face

I want to remain conscious, to draw what I see, to take it all out feed it to her to slice her in two, after she feasts upon my fingers, an act of love, as I'd tear her skin, maybe I'd buy glitter to stroke myself in it, she has a choice to suck or not while I don't, I just do.

Then it would pierce my brain

A needle with no middle

And it'd ache

It's a glow in the dark axe

My mind builds a dream

So I dream of it again

Until I cut it off and hung it on my bed

To scare the muted silence

I want to hear it scream

I want to pin it

It's golden innocence

A shed

To fill







So let me hang you as a portrait to stroke in the mornings and eat my own flesh in front of you as you dye the day green.

Open my skin like a shirt

Cut the donut in half

To lick the knife

As the tongue gets polished with blood

Give it out in candy wrappers

For people to lick their fingers

Why don't you sell your thoughts?

Just tap the brain twice

It'll open and leak

Into the mouth

To sell

You write those words on your thighs, as you lift your tight jeans up and they make your skin crack, but you continue writing with the nails on your fingers. You tear one off with you teeth, as I see you below, your head underneath, eyes closed. You know that I want to be that cigarette, the one hanging from your lips to fall between your legs and burn a feeling you ought to feel from a man as you sin upon the faith you were given, the portraits of people who never sinned, who never came upon another person and moved on to cheat on themselves, to take off all the mirrors as the fingers trace the areas between the legs.

Sex is disgusting.

Why don't we end it once, so I grab her by the wrist, dark eyes exposed, as I run my fingers down her arms, my thoughts my thoughts as I press her against, her mouth open wide to suck, as everything is torn and laid, as a tongue looks on my neck and I hurl her across the room, music upon my ears which I had once produced.

I grab a brush with my fingers, take everything off, hold her neck, dig in slowly, as I kiss her, expose her legs, raise them, hear a few clicks, as the wires break around her neck and I pierce them with my fingers, my fingers now red and I lick it off, my hand traveling down, as she breathes heavier and I trace her body with my fingers, take a few hairs from her hair, let her skull break, shards falling apart as they crush each other, a tongue on the side licking the banality I shouldn't hold.

She's beautiful upon the last breaths as I go inside to feel the blood circle and go cold with each thrust inside.

I take the body away from me, as I fall and I put it on the floor, shattered, as I put several lego pieces in her mouth to feel her hands stroke my hair as she lures me in.

All am illusion, as I squeeze in a few pieces between her breasts.

Cut off her left three ribs, take them out,

stick them in her head, piercing her eyes, as she screams, she's there, stroking my hair softer, words coming out of her mouth, as she licks my bottom trembling lip. Let her, as she gets me on top, now her hair short and the blood pools long, as she scratches my lip until it breaks in two.

I kiss her all over, the blood, the longing,

I'll never achieve, as sleep is cancelled upon the woman which lays, as I stretch her arms out, out her head to a side, eyes wide open, I want them to see, as I paint her body and she tells me her childhood, eyelashes sold, as I look further and stroke her chest, as I rip it open, the lungs now with pencil holes as I take them in and out, ashes going out, as her lips move.

Death is not overkill.

I raise her to stand, she talks, I do not listen, as I yank her shoulder blades to resemble wings, as her stomach is deleted, her legs growing from her opened chest, as she comes back from death, gasping her chin falling upon the floor and she looks around, one eye, two eyes, as the bone, the rib scratches her eye.

She eats a nipple, she feeds me one.

She traces a line upon my side and releases my veins, a long line of wires with trembling hands, the war lost to take one vain of mine and cut it in two, one strip against her earlobe, another across my front tooth. She yanks it and my head falls upon her knee, as the frame builds the gold as the glitter falls from her nose and she feeds it to herself.

My veins all metal, as she rips them all off and feeds her to her stomach, making one out of it, she takes it further, she takes my swollen face and feeds it to a lego tiger so that it says rawr.

My hand is aching, I scatter it to remove the skin and she bites the meat, my blood now her blood, as she peels off the bones with the jeans and goes on top, the lungs exposed and the holes

Breathe in

Breathe out

Hang me on the wall

Make me come

As you stroke the rib you now pierce my eye with

Just do it

I stick my tongue inside, fingering the lung holes, as I feel her hair and her exposed body above, now near as I open to see bright lights and my hands locked upon a body locked as the organs are sold among the walls, hands touching, let me let me let me

I never kiss.

The walls immerse my thoughts and my blood cough as I am pinned into them with a bunch if eyes and brushes as I am inside for the arrows to hold me down and pierce the flesh to stick, devour and use as a weapon vexes you control it with sex and all the fetishes you hold to stroke as she comes inside me, the dildo real.


Water grip.

Not done.

Pierced wave to cut upon

As she is hurled onto the floor and fucked

With organs inside just for the rescue,

so that it'd ache more.


Beats Immerse, doesn't it? Yes, I love the theme of sickness and death. I like, I love the feeling you get when you simply push it to the max and just see yourself write.

Path was written in two massive chunks the stage and the girl sitting behind the door and then the whole artist backstory came up. It was written for a contest, but didn't win. But I get to publish it here, that's what I love in my blog, I choose everything and I do not hold.

I am published in a Six Sentences anthology though:)

The more I write the more I see Naked Lunch's influence in me, if to be honest.

There is a poll if you scroll down on the left. Think wisely whom you'd shag and it has Exit's characters as well, as all shall make an appearence soon.

There's the layout and there's the story.

(2015): I had started writing this story back then with Jack and Alison in mind, but I didn't use their names to submit it to that contest, which I didn't get into, but y'know by the end of the day I'm the one, wondering if they even took off xD I'm mean, I guess xD either way, it's still an interesting story and even if it doesn't contain their names it was written with them in mind and inspired by them as well:)

I guess I'll shed some more light onto the backstory here, because I still love this story years on and regarding the door and knife, it was something I had done as a child, I have no idea why I had that claustrophobia or whatever the fuck that was and it was used in the story. But that's all what is taken from life xD

Dance, Dance, Dance, We Will Not Be Moved By It

Saturday, 7 May 2011

Exit. Prologue.

I loved a girl. Sometimes you don't even question that, once it's there, you just grasp it with a swallow, no matter how bitter, you'll still see the smile. I loved her dearly with her long dark brown chestnut hair into two braids, which I imagined her braiding it as I’d dye my hair in the longer mornings. As if it would be the two reflections of mirrors we'd hold, grinning, until they'd break and it would symbolize good luck. I’d imagine her beside me her fingers trailing her braids, maybe even upon my lips, just a small touch. It would be a kiss. I’m sure I’d flee like a burned stone once she’d exit the room, jump as high as I would. To try and reach something else.

But then while she wouldn’t I’d just stare afraid to move, as I’d pray for her to do something else rather then to brush her mouth against my own, because I've already thought of that. It’d be like some lullaby to drift me into where the moon was big, the stars were small, soft and not raw.

I looked at her past the hallway, but I never got the chance to grab her wrist, to tell her how I feel, as I was afraid to get denied. I was too afraid of accuse that my emotions were headed into an opposite unwanted direction that I kept silent.

I stared outside, watching a closed balcony.

I could break it.

So I did.

Not the balcony, though.

Until I got my face shoved into face of a beauty. It was no compare to my beloved, but it was attractive. I watched its hair flow, its horns glow. But then was there a glow to go with the horns my mind had drawn? Of course not. It did not to speak as I knew what it wanted.

What I wanted.

It's a mere glance upon until I thread my fingers in her hair, as I kiss, I do not imagine the girl, as the tongue burns my feel. It is one-sided, but isn't love to be that, as I feel the hands wrap me around, as I feel everything above me and everything below, but. don't open my eyes, I held my eyes closed, as I feel her fiddling with my tongue, my mouth opened, as if I am dunked in an armchair, higher than my height and pushed, to be upside down and suck.

“Would you?”

“You want to.”

I agree and it takes place before I get to say something, as it touches my brow, the sensible spot above the eye, the eyelid as it slowly drifts.

I can feel something sliding out of my brow, as I open my eyes, feeling my self drown, as liquid breaks my body and the couch, as I stare, my hair flowing in the stars of water, as I see them create the surrounding, as everything aches.


The stare as intense as ever, like some sort of silent discotheque, with the false wrong moves in front of the dancing queen? King? The questions pop momentary into the mouth and out of it like it wasn’t there in the first place and waits to throw its own hands up as in a ‘in wasn’t me’ way and ‘I was never there’ way.

Images rush through the head as my hair gets stroked, the gaze turning blurry.

I can't move, as it presses my head against it's shoulder, but even my head my feels light, my hands now jelly, one red, one blue, the toes slowly detaching, all the thought gone, as the image of myself seems eternal.

Nothing is sucked out as expected, everything leaves by itslef, as the beauty stares, clapping as purple fluids leak out, my body emits a soft glow. I get a kiss on the cheek and a tap of the hand, as I scream. I look back into the gaze, I close my eyes as the fingers stroke me more, flirting with my lips, up to the brows. The image of my eyelids changes like a kaleidoscope. It’s intense, it’s blurry, it’s insignificant, it’s useless, it holds some threat. It goes darker from the bright, screeching golden glow to a dull gray, black, lonely pitch black.


“Why?” I ask myself as the stroking stops. I grab the hand. I press it against my temple, begging for more, my whole body aching understanding the loss, but making a false connection anyway. What was the loss?

It tries to go from my left brow, but I hold it, as an object tries to fall, but I swallow it.

She screeches, as I fall down, on a meadow, as I think of the moon and the moon appears with the stars and Christmas Trees slowly grow, as I dress myself, as I touch my brow, the scar now gone, as I lean against a door.

Basically the word beginning rolls onto the tongue.

I can chew it, even if it's too far away, but if I'd know where it would be tomorrow, would it be faded and fucked?

Basically, it started kind of cheerful, at least that's what I colour it now, because you can flirt with the memories easily. I had no idea why. I lunch myself further, watching the snowflakes fall, pulling my sleeve up to see all the scribbles eating my arm. I press my index finger trailing several drawn stars which seemed to be glued together by my pen, as I should have sprinkled them with glitter, as I kiss the marks. I pull the sleeve down, feeling as if the several scattered people on the streets were invading my privacy. I wish I could freeze time and walk calmly past all of them, as their faces would be frozen describing what exactly were they and how many feelings they had killed. I tugged on the sleeve, making it longer that I nearly fell on my fingertips, as I traced the wool outline, watching a few talk via a phone booth.

I feel naked, as a pink steak exits my hat, getting stroked by the snow and I feel a few glances on it, so without hesitation, my eyes shaking with my hands, that I might lose someyhing dear, I stuff it back in with an inner ache, I just burned.

There’s nothing special and the question appears why did I dye several bangs of my hair if I keep them hidden under there all safe and warm under my hat?

It just feels… private.

Plus I know my parents reaction. I hesitate for a second and slower my pace, looking up to see snowflakes fall onto my nose, as I don't try to get them inside my body, so I blink way too much, for my eyelashes to catch it, as I brush my nose against my scarf, feeling my mood cool down, maybe nothing ever happened. I dig my hands in my pockets thinking how childish I am with the bright coloured docs and the thoughts and theories, which I keep.

I get labeled that, as if it were old, by not telling exactly what I feel even if my cheeks blur out all my inner state. I'd rather listen than speak, because then I'd have to talk about myself and that would be public. No matter if I want to or not, but the thing is that I never want to. I try to avoid people who I know will start digging into myself and wonder out loud why I don’t open to them, accusing me of things I might not even touch in my mind.

I walk on, looking down at the snow slowly beginning to cover the light blue on my feet. More and more. I try to count but due to their size, white on white, I lose count even before I begin. I look up, to find a stranger looking as dazed as I do now.

His dark eyes meet mine for a second, I look down, he looks up. I stare at how bigger his eyes look behind the specs and try to think of his height. His hair hints the fact that it wasn’t meant to stick out that way, reminding that I need a haircut myself. I stare at a now shoulder length steak brushing my shoulder covered by the several layers of clothing.

His coat is unbuttoned which forces me onto the question how can he walk around so easily like that without freezing or even giving out some sort of hint. Soon enough he walks past me after another glance and don’t bother to steal another glance at him.

Logically, he may be going from work just like I am.

Technically, tomorrow is Tuesday, the second and last Tuesday on my winter break.


Welcome to the Exit era, the blog is back to the usual one chapter and one short story a week. I want to say a lot about this prologue, but I'd rather not say anything, but simply keep silent, in case I spoil.

Exit was created when I was worried, that I might have none ideas after Papercut, so I remember luying in bed, as I came up with the whole story, just to do plot notes later.

Chapter 1

Wednesday, 4 May 2011


I am a bugs bunny sticker on a photograph
Tear me to see the faint outline of my corpus
I compare myself to the crowd which doesn't notice my plastic face
I take a gun in my mouth
People see it as a candy toy gun
I extract sugar from my blood
I take you from the crowd
Your eyes which shall glow
I shall hear the crowd sing
And you shall tell me what you shall feel
As I shall send the trigger upon the dead corpus
I'd kill you before
So that you'd tell me what you feel
What colours you see
As I held your eyes open to breathe
As space opens
A sphere above
The crows is a mass of chocolate
Feel free to eat them, baby
I am complete with your love
As I devour you as you bleed into my mouth
I ask you to describe
What you feel
As you leak into my tongue
As I lick your organs
One by one
Answer me
Once you don't
I'll die in a bathtub
A bottle to meditate to
And powder to breathe instead of using to wash my dirty thoughts
With white handkerchiefs
Which have lingered in your mind


This poem was written exactly after I finnished watching When You're Strange, the new The Doors documentary which is too good too even describe, the poem influenced by Morrisson and his quote on musicians and assasins.

I apologize for all the wait and all the work the blog needs. I'm back, Exit will be up this week, as it had won, with my favourite love scenes ever written by me, which, yes, I go gooey when I read them, but fear not, it is sick and dark, as everything my fingers have ever typed.

Script Frenzy and close deaths affected me, both of them, taking my time and giving me inspiration.

Death changes you, no matter, close or not, just once it hits the relatives, you just can't close your eyes on the bodies you'll see or rather the amount of the remains.

I may be harsh in some way, I've thought about it recently, as I can describe nearly every death and torture, finding art in sick short stories. (Yes, In The Penal Colony by Kafka is my favourite work).

But nothing is as shocking as the imagery, no matter, taken or made.