Monday, 6 February 2012

5th February 2012

Let me fall asleep in your arms

As you won’t be able to carry me during the day

When I stalk you behind the stage

And a love which is not meant

The lyrics stick to your head, not too good with a pint and an empty home.

The kids are over at Karen’s and Alison’s pink seems like a glossy anthem to her lost love as well as I let her in and she looks older, I look older and so do all the faces which listen to me. It feels as if we’re all getting slowly dragged into death to be erased like chalk from the board only with feet, as our arms are gone.

I kiss her on the cheek and I’m too drunk to mimic Jamie, but I do and I do her lips.

She’s too sober to mimic so she slips inside and takes the coat off when the Christmas lights are off in a second,

this is grief.

This is the mourn to the end and a song to the dead, an ode to the heavens when it’s four and you can’t go back.

Love is the illusion you can fake.

So I just strip her and she objects, so I offer her tea and she slowly denies and accepts coffee without the lights in the kitchen as three or four stars light up our room and I just hold her hand and I’m crying.

She offers me to dance and she sings some lullaby maybe her grandparents sang to her and her hips seem too fragile so I hold them and I want to slam her against the wall.

It’s not the first time and not the last time when she’s sneaked in and had me inside going up and down the black being the curtain of shame to the pleasure as I would pull her hair back to see her orgasm.

I undo her jeans, being possessive with a shaking soul.

She undoes the zip and goes down to her knees and just takes me in her mouth.

Maybe it’s her cheap way of saying fuck off to watch television in the night as she would cry and no program would be nice, but we’d share the same bed, mourning over those we lost but never buried due to their age and their religion and the simply ability to walk and exchange children.


When you’re crying

So that the two barrel would be lifted up

And Alison would press it against my forehead, herself naked from the waist down so that I would see the Lord when I take the gun in my mouth as much as I can take

So that the colour would be vivid and lovely

I touch myself

She laughs

It’s not whisky

It’s not drugs

It’s the air we all breathe with the mourned

So shoot love shoot

So that my love will be gone from this earth

You walk on

With the beloved

And the children

And I will move on in little minds

Because that is where

My thoughts should wander off

Into the young dead

Which do not live

Until my blood


Goes into them

So I stick my fingers into the rug

As I bleed

And Alison watches

Lighting a cigarette upon me

She puts herself behind me

Gives a gun to my hand

As my eyes dry

I should shoot

But I don’t

And I die

Tainting the world

With a musical note


Today a relative, beloved relative passed away, which should be well, the whole


The whole death and going on.

Only it's not someone who you barely knew and barely care, but someone you loved and it's like what the fuck is going on even if death was predicted and needed to end.

It's not something I want to keep quiet about, but I will keep it a bit censored for just cause sake.

Thank you.

My internet died and now it's back with the story.

It's not a death which pulls you back to mourn but a death which pulls you forwards because someone who spend their life like you are going with yours


You are the future.

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