roseenglishdeluxe-blog

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Lyrics to Twatticus Domesticus

2. Bloody Vaginal Belch

“You are sweet your ferrous scents are coming to me just like they’re meant to,

You are the rainbow in my kissing veins, sweetie,

Bloody hearts are hardly beating, every theory, self-defeating,

That says that you are not a destiny, sweetie,

You are so clever, 

Every endeavour goes right for you,

You are so wise,

Your old, scared eyes, like glitter, and glue.

[I don’t even know what I said at the beginning of the second verse]

If you wrote a book, it would be so intense and so informed, it

Would explain everything in all the world, sweetie, sweetie, sweetie

You are so clever, 

Every endeavour goes right for your,

You are so wise,

Your old scared eyes, like glitter, and glue. (yeah)

3. Stodgy Lamb Diabetes

Stodgy lamb diabetes (x2)

In the Spring of 3194,

The Battle of Bitchgale halted, by a threat you can’t ignore,

A plague, plague, plague,

Such a sweet smell in the air (x2)

It’s the golden syrup grass.

5. Opinions

I have opinions and, listen to them,

I have opinions and idiosyncrasies.

8. Cultural Mist

Avoid death’s gaze (x3)

Tell me you don’t care

Chains of life make (x3)

Echoes everywhere.

Kindly walk from ought to ought to

Feed me bombs and fuck your daughters.

(This is a song, called Cultural mist, and it’s just about...something)

I wanna reflect on the age,

I wanna cast my shadows over your sunburn,

I wanna have pictures taken of me,

I wanna get into a debate with Shami Chakrabati,

I wanna date the girl from page 3, of the Guardian,

I wanna forget that there were ever any Kardashians

At three p.m. I’m getting old, I ask why I exist,

And such is life, or so I’m told, get a job, get a family, get pissed,

Get money, get up in the morning, dawning on you little details, long dismissed,

And I think I’m sinking further into the cultural mist

I wanna invest in the stock market,

In the most sensible way,

I wanna give redpillers exactly what they all deserve,

I wanna teach them the meanings of their own words, and I know,

Some won’t comply, but they all die and then no more will be born,

I wanna live in a world where such people don’t even suffer the indignity of being born.

At three p.m. I’m getting old, I ask why I exist,

And such is life, or so they say, get a job, get a family, get pissed,

Get money, get up in the morning, dawning on you little details, long dismissed,

And I think I’m sinking further...

I have opinions and listen to them,

I have opinions and idiosyncrasies [etc.]

9. Butterfly (A Haiku)

(She’s a) butterfly.

But she does not get around.

[Then some guitar noise]

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Tortoise - Part 3

The nihilistic argument, ‘you’re damned if you do, and you’re damned if you don’t,’ does not necessarily cripple the soul. If we consider the possible impending doom, that strikes a little fear into us, and conclude that nothing matters, or everything matters, then we can still dream. I had previously made the mistake of assuming that dreaming of this kind is the result of a logical argument, that is only then transformed into a wistful bell that delights us. Upon reflection, I see that a dream arises as a bell first, except perhaps in the severely depressed, and only here is its only hope an argument. I can only conclude from the observation of this error that I am severely depressed, or had been, up until this ‘cold, soundless moment,’ that Amelia and I shared in the attic. We both looked up at the stars in the evening sky, as she murmured fragments of Scott Walker’s songs to herself. I didn’t feel the need to look at her in adoration as she did this, as I found I did with the many women who had previously enflamed the innards of my heart – I think I was afraid to miss their beauty if I did not look directly at it. But even from the corner of my eye, Amelia shone, like one of those long-lost women from my age of innocence – one, I recall, who, in a word game, jokingly offered to end said age (but she was only reciting pick-up lines that involved titles of films – incidentally this game was terminated by an ultra-ironic sentiment from a friend of mine. “Because of you,” he said, “I must become Superman IV: A Quest for Peace).

 “What’re you thinking?” Amelia asked me, and I returned to the room, looking to her suddenly.

“Erm…I don’t know…lots of things…”

“Like what?” She asked, with her sweet, curious smile.

“I was recalling when me and some…friends…were making up pickup lines that involved film titles…”

She chuckled, “That’s sweet. I haven’t been to see a film since ’68.”

“I haven’t seen one in a long time myself…admittedly, not that long.”

We were silent again, just looking at each other – her eyes darted over me, with what seemed to be sadness.

“What about you?” I asked.

“I trashed my whole house to Sons Of. I was just thinking about that. It really frightened me when these wings grew…”

“Weren’t you expecting them?” I asked, and she shook her head, “didn’t your parents have wings?”

“My mother might have had wings…” She said, hesitantly, “I haven’t seen her since 1888…I don’t think parenthood comes naturally to my kind…” She managed to chuckle again.

“I’m sure you’d make an excellent mother…” I said, without even thinking about it. She smiled wide again.

“What makes you say that?”

I paused, retracing myself. Those eyes, like bleached emeralds, were now occupying my whole vision, or what neuropsychologists would call my ‘attention,’ like they were the two borders of the sky, two gently glowing stars, giving just enough light to make the earth visible. Why did I say it?

“You’re…I don’t know…there’s just something about you that makes me want to trust you. Perhaps that’s just me. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said it…” I almost lamented, looking down, red-faced.

“It’s ok. I’ve just never considered motherhood myself…” She reached out, and moved her talons across the arm of my shirt, comforting me, “you seem like you need some peace, Kieran. Such a wound up young thing…”

“Peace would be nice…”

She was silent again, still caressing my arm. She was motherly. I wondered for a second if she had a vagina. What a combination of thoughts! The record stopped.

 “You know what I do when I want some peace?” She asked, squeezing my arm a little bit, “I fly.”

“I wish I could fly…”

She ran her talons through her hair and grinned, “Well you could, if you liked…”

“How?”

“I could carry you…”

I was watching her part her hair slowly, untangling it, and then slowly winding it around her wrist, hypnotically.

“That would be brilliant!” I blurted out. She turned to face me.

“Ok then…” She opened her arms, firmly taking hold of me by my upper and lower back, pressing me to her chest, “wrap your legs around my waist…” she murmured, instructively. Trembling, I obeyed, and she shifted her hands a little bit behind me to support my weight better.

“You’re so strong…” I said. Our faces were so close. She smiled, carrying me to the far end of the room, and then turning to face the hole in the roof.

“Do you still trust me?” She asked with a little grin.

“In theory…”

“Ok, the important thing is to relax. Don’t worry about holding onto me with your hands. I’ve got you…” She was trembling too, her pale eyes wide, her talons, and her fingers pressing into my back.

I nodded, “I’ll keep that in mind.”

Without any further notice, Amelia began to run, gathering speed, and jumping. I felt weightless for a moment, as her wings opened up behind her, flapping violently at first as she coped with the extra weight, gained some height. I think I told her I was scared, and she reassured me, as she gained yet more height, until began to fly gracefully, flapping, every dew seconds.

 She looked down at me, the sky above her, “What do you think?” She asked. She seemed unfittingly calm, but I supposed she was used to flying by now.

“Well I can’t see much, only the sky…”

“Oh, yes, of course…” She seemed to think for a moment, and before I knew what, exactly, had happened, she let go of my body. In a panic, the grip of my legs tensed, but she took hold of my arms.

“I’ve got you, don’t worry. I’m going to turn you around, so you can look down. So you’ll have to let go of my waist, darling…” With some effort, I convinced my legs to relax, and my body dangled from the grip of her hands. Then she swiftly swapped my arms to turn me around, into the force of the breeze – we were going fast! – and she pulled my body up again with little effort, taking hold of me by the torso, showing me the forest far below us. I felt her wings flap again, to keep us up, descending and ascending by several feet as she steadied herself. She was groaning a little, her nose against my ear, mumbling something about being sorry. For what, I had no idea.

 “Are you ok, Amelia? What’re you sorry for?” I asked. She sighed.

“It took me a long time to learn how to fly, you know? No-one taught me.” She said, not answering my question, “What do you think of the view?”

I looked down, seeing the lights from my town, “It’s…so thrilling. Look, down there, that street is full of night clubs, I go out dancing there sometimes.”

“That’s big with folk these days isn’t it? Intoxication and copulation…” She sighed again, and began to turn herself, to change her course and fly back from the town, towards the forest again, “I can understand the draw of it, I suppose. Not for me. I don’t enjoy sex like I used to, perhaps I’m maturing. Honestly I don’t even know what my life-cycle is like! I don’t know any of my own kind…” She continued, “I’m actually quite lonely…”

“Does no-one ever come to see you?” I asked, as she descended somewhat, I saw her house pass underneath us, as she flew further into the forest, the dark canopy whizzing by, perhaps thirty metres below us.

“No.” She said simply. Pausing. “I had a great-great niece, but I think she must have died by now. She wasn’t like me, she was a normal human. She was very old.”

“I feel sad for you, Amelia. I’ll come and visit you again.” I said, feeling that bizarre sting of pity. It hurts so good, doesn’t it? Something Nietzsche picked up on, I’m sure. Her bizarre behaviour towards me in this moment was surely a symptom of need. I could have sworn she kissed the back of my neck. Perhaps she needed someone. Despite her strength, and her powers of flight, her immortality, I felt as though I had a kind of power over her. I’d never abuse it, of course. In fact, I think I loved her.

“I think I lov…”

I stopped, as I realised something – she’d let me go.

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Tortoise - Part 2

I froze, fixed my eyes on the light switch, for a moment...I couldn't hear the breathing anymore. Why had the record stopped? I heard the strangely pervasive sound of movement against sheets, then she spoke. 

"Oh don't worry, it always does that, I'm guessing it's the wiring, the electricity and so on." I turned sharply around to look upon her, she looked back, "I'd get it fixed," she continued...that shape I'd seen in the darkness - it was a pair of white, featherless wings, somewhat bat-like, "but they'd be all like 'argh!'" she chuckled a little bit, "they'd be all like 'why've you got wings?'" she said, looking me over, as I did her. I looked down, suddenly feeling somewhat impolite in staring at her. 

"It's ok, you can stare!" She said softly, "I stared too when I first got them. It hurt like hell...” she laughed, “I actually threw up...well you would, wouldn't you?" 

I found my voice again, "Erm...why do you have wings?" 

She tilted her head. Her eyes were green, I think - a very pale green, and her face was pallid and white, a colour as pure as ash; but somehow she was quite beautiful. 

"Like I said: they grew out of my back!" She laughed at herself, "sorry, I shouldn't tease you, you must be a little bit scared..." She walked over to me, "I honestly don't know why - ask Darwin, or whoever the modern equivalent of him is...I don't keep up with current affairs. Evolution's still a thing, right?" She pushed back her long honey-ish hair. 

"Erm, yes it is..." That was not a satisfactory answer she gave me; I grasped for a decent question, "So...who are you?" I finally asked, finding my eyes drawn to her hair again, straight, falling across the chest of her long, white gown. 

"Amelia..." She offered me her hand. My eyes must have widened at the sight of it, for she immediately said, "yeah I also have very...talony…hands. Don't worry, a handshake won't kill you..." 

I shook her hand, "Nice to meet you, Amelia, I'm Kieran...Kieran Drake..." 

"Cool name...I'm Amelia..." she paused and looked away, "erm...Burgess...I forget my surname sometimes, forgive me..." she said, colour finding its way into her cheeks for a second. 

 Now she was standing closer, I realised she was of fairly small stature, little over five foot. But her wings, at their folded tips - like a biblical angel's, but featherless, flesh-coloured - were just a little higher than my head. I was lying about my name, I don't know why I did that; I'd read that name in a teenage novel, perhaps I'm too old to be reading them, I'm still a juvenile inside, but I'm digressing...

"Oh!" I exclaimed, "I'm sorry I disturbed you, by the way...I was just curious about the music..."

"I forgive you, Kieran. The world is so forward these days, no-one knows where they are. Scott Walker though...he's a beautiful soul isn't he?" She leaned past me, and switched the light off, and "It's Raining Today," began to play again. Amelia immediately hurried to the other side of the room, picked something up, and lit it - an oil lamp, "You know, this was the last record I bought. I was listening to it when my wings came through, actually." She explained, lighting another, presumably gas, lamp that was on the wall, illuminating the room a little bit more.

"How long have you had them? The wings, I mean..."

"Erm...let me see...when did this record come out?" She thought, "Sixty-nine, wasn't it? Yes, I'm sure of it..." She muttered, "hmm, so that's, what? fifty years exactly?"

"You're fifty?"

She grinned at me "I'm much older than fifty, silly..."

 I didn't believe her...this was too insane for me, I think. I think I found myself shaking my head at her in disbelief. I wanted it to be true, of course, what could be more exciting than coming across some bizarre, angelic creature like her? And someone so nice, with such a great taste for music, even if I had a sneaking suspicion she was awaiting an opportunity to kill me. No, not her, not this gorgeous creature. Perhaps, she certainly could have done, I thought. Yes! - then let her kill me! What value is life, after all... No, I was clearly being paranoid; any deviation from the norm is enough to send most people into a primitive state of panic and fear, and me, especially, I was wont to assume the worst as soon as something appeared out of place... Perhaps...I still knew nothing about her, I was at a complete loss for experience on which to draw...and thus I continued to think, until she interrupted me.

 "You don't believe me, do you?" She asked.

"Well...you're not the type of, erm, person, one comes across very often."

"Let me show you..." She said, and turned her back, reaching around immediately and unfastening her gown, her wings twitching a little bit. I could see the point where the wings joined her spine, and it seemed seamless, it seemed real enough, "Touch..." she murmured. A few fair tresses fell over the seam from her wings as she moved, and I reached out, trembling, to brush them aside, onto her shoulder,

I muttered, "sorry...your hair was in the way a bit..."

"Well I have only just got out of bed..." She chuckled.

I placed my fingers where the base of the wings started, moving them across her smooth, cool flesh, until I felt what might have been tendons beneath the skin - strong cords to help with the opening and closing of the wings, perhaps. My hand moved to the wing itself, it was a little bit soft, maybe collagen under a tough skin? I'm not sure, and the texture was a tiny bit leathery, and I felt like I could smell sweat, or just general dermatological emissions, or pheramones, adrenaline, testostarone, or flowers, or the stink of springtime, the retreat of the frost, or something. I gazed for a long time - it must have been a long time - we had returned to "We Came Through," when one of us spoke again.

 "So you believe me now?" She asked.

"I do..." I murmured.

"What were you thinking, in all that time, Kieran?" She asked, fastening her gown once more and facing me.

"I'm not sure...I think I got lost in thoughts."

"Do you want to go upstairs?"

"I...what?"

"To the attic, the roof's broken, so we could see the moon and the stars up there..." She laughed, "what did you think I meant?"

"Nothing. Yeah I guess the lamps are making the room a bit stuffy...some open air would be nice I guess..."

She switched off the two lamps, and led the way to the attic.

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

A Reflection on Men

The soul drips out in a kind of IV feed,

In the throat, under the infection,

 Self-inflicted infection – smoking,

Well I refuse to do drugs,

Because the world’s far too wonky.

 But I stand, like a granite monkey,

Observing no-evil, puffing on a cigarette,

A stone-cold mannequin contemplating

the clay-red founder’s building

 Occasionally a woman catches my eye –

I once kissed a man, and it was just fine,

But women are the other, I suppose –

I ignore them, regardless, the one true thing,

I’m supposed to comprehend, is external,

 But there’s not enough time to ship myself

Into the port of reality, and not enough time to smile fuckable,

When so much reality-port-shipping to do,

Hegel contemplates us, but that double-negation needs

A latex mask I can’t afford, so I ignore them.

#internationalmensday #Imareprobate #Firstworldalmostproblems

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

I may have put this on twice by mistake, forgive me. 

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Tortoise - Part 1

The nihilistic argument, the phrase 'you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't,' has never been as relevant as it is today. Tomorrow, if I don't find a job, and some ghostly country nukes us, my unemployment will be of no matter. Tomorrow, if I do, and some ghostly country nukes us, my employment will, again, be of no matter. And, if this does not happen, then I shall be better off for having found employment. This is the nihilistic argument. If we're doomed, nothing matters, and if we're not, everything matters. So we continue as we did before. It doesn't matter. Nihil rebus.

I sometimes wonder if this argument doesn't cripple the soul, however. If we have this idea of impending doom eating away at us, we may abandon the high-flying ideals that make our race so great, and aim only at efficiency, and strength. We cannot get above and beyond, we just live, instead, beside and surrounded. Beside and surrounded by our peers, living off the back of social pressures, things like money and likeability, and a feeling of duty to not let others down, and on habit, doing what we did before. This kills any kind of dream, and makes us animals.

I was trying to counteract this, and to get out of the house for a while, by taking a walk in the woods behind the town, when I found a huge, wonderful clearing. The sun was just slipping under the horizon, and there was a chill in the air. I must have walked for a long time, I thought, for I had never stumbled upon this beauty before; the deep orange of the sunset coloured the grass thickly; I smiled to myself, as I pushed my way through the flora, disturbing moths and crane-flies. I think I heard music, ever so faintly, coming from what I realised was a large, abandoned house, at the end of the clearing, where the forest resumed. I hurried closer to the sound; it was certainly emanating from the building. And that was certainly music. It was derelict, and so I presumed it was occupied by squatters - squatters with an excellent taste in music, I might add! Yes! I recognised, now, the record was Scott Walker's “Copenhagen.”

Even so, why should I even consider pushing the old wooden door open? Something about it was enchanting. I almost sensed that the person playing this music - now “Rosemary” was playing; it must have been the “Scott 3″ LP - that this person was alone. In fact, I could almost sense that she was a woman. I'm not saying women can't be dangerous, or even that women who can appreciate Scott Walker can't be dangerous, but I think that I was willing to bet my life that this particular woman was harmless. This isn't to say I was very sure of myself, it was more an indictment to the value I place on my life. And so I pushed the door open. The flooring of the house creaked, and the creaks echoed through the dun, unfurnished rooms. I caught scents of sweat, and of charred wood, as I ascended the stairs. The sweat, in particular, was intoxicating. I felt sure I would have brought attention to myself as I moved up the noisy stairs, along the noisy landing, and that someone would come to meet me. But no-one did.

Between “Rosemary” and “Big Louise,” I heard the breathing. Soft and heavy, and deep. Was she sleeping, perhaps? I was nearly certain it was a she, somehow. Do women smell different from men? I pushed the door to the bedroom open, where the music seemed to be coming from. An old record-player stood in the centre of the room, and there, on the bed, was something, something unrecognisable in the darkness. The curtains were drawn, and hence there was hardly a dim glow seeping around the edges, but there was certainly something on the bed; something breathing - breathing, and occasionally sighing, and softly groaning.

I swiftly made an excuse in my head - that whatever this thing was, it could outpace me, if it was malicious - and thus convinced myself not to turn and run. I could have sneaked off I suppose, let her sleep. Yes, I was still convinced this thing was a woman. But her shape was wrong. Against the light, there was an outline, a smooth, round outline, and only underneath, curled against the sheets, was something remotely humanoid. I couldn't make sense of her, no matter how much I stood staring; I think the sun must have slipped a degree lower since I had entered the house, and thus it seemed much, much darker. It was just me and her breathing, and Scott Walker, of course. But soon I grew braver, as soon as the next track burst triumphantly through the speakers - I had to do something. I found a light switch. No sooner had I switched the light on, however, the music stopped. 

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Who is Miranda?

#Lovesongs

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Preface to Something Political (2)

One moment in the lowest ebb of my life - that ebb being the time I spent in third year going to strip clubs, writing shit sad songs, taking drugs, smoking cigarettes and eating far too much dominos pizza (which explains my poverty now, too) - one moment from this dull landscape of idiocy and scoundrelism, Kierkegaard and Motivated-Indirect-Act-Utilitarianism, sticks the fuck out. I was with some "friends." Perhaps a better word would be acquaintances, perhaps better still, victims. But whatever you shall call them, I was there, sitting with them in a stale, red-coloured bar, hazed by all the malaises of smoking, probably, and drinking, and the hyperactivity of having people to talk to in such a lonely life. Because I was far lonlier then than I am now. And they were planning, on the coming Friday, to get some pancakes, for whatever reason, and I asked if I could go. The one who I asked contorted slightly, tilted his head, and made a sound of hesitation. In that moment, and every rememberace thereof thereafter, I felt I had lost my footing on not only them, but on the whole of my existence, I had drifted too far from whatever it was that I was supposed to be, and found myself in a mess of a room, in a dry heave of a hangover, from the drunkenness of depression. That was second year, by the way, the depression, I mean. I found that year far more bearable, because at least I lived with interesting people - people who, for better or for worse, imbrued me with a kind of contempt, a kind of warlikeness, that my depressed and self-disdaining little soul could not fully appreciate - and yet it still tried! So here I was, with my new living arrangements, with perfectly fine and friendly people for whom I had nothing but contempt, and fear, and a sense of boredom. Hey, but at least they never took my wine without asking! Or even with asking, actually. One girl asked for a cigarette once, but anyway... And forever, I can remember his face, and the feeling behind it, as though the three years of my steady decline, of my recklessness, my boringness, my dangerousness, was finally being paid for, like Faust. So when I vow to do three days of labour to alleviate my guilt, I vow in the full knowledge that politically speaking I'm green. I vow, full in the knowledge that I am not as sharp as I perhaps once was, that people don't necesssarily like me, they may not hate me, but they have every reason to dislike me, or at least disregard me as a thinker (and, for me, that means to disregard me as a whole). I blame myself, I'm attempting to make some kind of amends with what follows. I cannot win you over with my passion, it is dumb. I cannot win you over with the assuredness of someone who has spent a lot of his adult life looking at the political machinery in his spare time. I must win you over with honesty, with earnestness, with precision. It's all I have right now.

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Preface to Something Political (1)

Last night, numbed by rage, trembling, I struck myself, so hard it made a loud, meaty thud, And I shrunk to the ground and coiled, Such a soreness.

I became sick again - sick of myself, Sick of others, their stupidity reflecting my own, My lack of an explanation, my brain atrophied from many days, Of thoughtless cigarettes, and the cunning and strength of those more fortunate in the determinate swirl, and the weakness of myself, Just somewhere else, Somewhere in the swelter, So I curled into bed, A quarter circle, And rammed shut my emptied face, And slept.

At five, this morning, I was awoken by what I perceived to be an offence on my person, Because in deprivation of nicotine my constant, dumb paranoia seemed to worsen, My father coughed up some remnants of dead viruses, And so did I, but I'm not the same as you, father! I will not be heard to cough! I arose,

I think an instrumental is apropos To alleviate a tired narrative, I think an instrumental was empty, so early, But I think it instrumental to my reconstruction, Some forced deadline, Some continuum of choice in the relaxed smoke of my last pound and tenpence, When the sun rose, Began to pour its cold milk unto the golden suburbs, blossom wombs, And dog walkers, a last linger of a dawn chorus, Yes...

I suggested, as one does, in a dawn, that I should labour, For three days, To bring to fruition, A brown gaze, Beyond the damned belly button of the depressed-unemployed waiting-student-empty-guilty I'd become.

[Link to next section will appear when next section exists]

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Not the Couch

Swallows in your stomach, Louder than bombs, Before the mania got too much, You made love, Drunk on cider, I just really hope you didn't do it on the couch, I mean, do what you like in your bedroom, But I don't want sexual fluids on the couch, Especially not yours, I mean, you're an attractive woman and I like you and all, And you can sleep with my best friend if you really must, But you're my sister so it's weird.

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Bloom

What happens when the tumor has legs?

Champagne at her wedding, Burns the ex-ecstatic soul, Like death warmed up, And now life drinks itself, Like a bird on a desk.

Eyes turn red, Whilst skin is taut On the breast plate through black windows, I'm in delight, Rattling the light Through the hole in the roof, Let me smell, All your chemicals.

I think she lectured English, And played fifty shades With her wimpering husband, Who finally called for help, And they took her away, He didn't know what to do next.

Now she is ailing, Now she is swollen, She once had a fetish For expecting women, And children, And now she's a mother to be, Now her eyes water, The touch of another, The son or the daughter, That's growing inside her, Exciters her, And plunges her into herself,

What happens when the tumor has legs?

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Good Evening

Need to brush teeth, Enumerate Kierkegaard related experiences, The way he remedied my crying self, Walking away from home, Into town, Writing the diary entry of jealousy, And of her intimidating beauty, My sub-misogynist heart raced for her, But anyway, I needed medicine, For a headache, Of my failings, I was afraid, I walked away from home, To remedy my crying self, I needed Kierkegaard, Kierkegaard.

Need to brush teeth, And polish face, And quit smoking, And enumerate Nietzsche related experiences, The way he encouraged me to laugh about things, And laugh and laugh until it melted, Limp, dripping laughed out gasless lungs, I wasn't strong enough.

Love is fragments, Libby, will you be my girlfriend? Or failing that, Poke me with a sword in a Tolkein themed pub garden, (This was before I smoked,) Whilst dressed as a sexy pirate, and come back to haunt me And save me from alcoholism? I can't feel a thing, This city is starting to bite at my nerves, This city is starting to numb me, Love is fragments stretched across time Like skin, Like collagen on angel's wings,

Need to brush teeth, Need to remember Camus, Need to remember Wittgenstein.

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Rattle Rattle Rattle

You rattle rattle rattle, Against the night, Against the smoke, Against the orange in the twilight, You rattle rattle rattle on, The darkness slipping through your fingers, Cutting them like silk, Smile wryly, Coyly, Slyly, You cheat mortality, Die through another day, And sleep in the night again, Because the sun She will be bright again, Rattle, Rattle,

The dark consequence is divided into manageable chunks of apathy, Fetishised despair, is mixed in with true despair, And it tastes funny, And you laugh.

Rattle rattle rattle, 'gainst the day, Against the grey, Against the spectre, And the mallet, Keep it swinging up above, Keep it grinding up the love, To these pink crystals, Swirling in the deconstructed muscle In the chest, Love is lost in laughter, And laughter is lost in hatred.

#morbidity

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

An ethicist who studies not good but evil, will be more connected to the world he lives in, but, of course, no-one wants to stare into that damned abyss...

Wednesday Brown (”Letters To Cattie,” 2537)

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Fairy from Salisbury Town

How many more - of inspirations from the heart from the memory from the start of the end of the beating of the heart of my youth - How many more meaningful sacrifices of cake - to the goddess of butterflies gathered round my head, tickling and teasing out tears in the cold, smoky air - How many more tributes of gold coins To the altar of the fairy from Wiltshire, I miss you, I whisper, I miss you, Oh fairy from Salisbury town, Red lipstick, hammering meat against Stonehenge, In modest white dresses, The blood washes out all the stains, Preventing stagnation, Oh fairy of Salisbury town, You moved out And you settled down, I whisper, 'I miss you' !

It was all just a strange and indulgent dream. I remember you like an emotion, Not like a person, Stop shining like a new pound sterling coin, Stop smiling like a child, like a young goddess of everflowing power, Like some überwältige, a distorted memory of mammalian saturnalia (Cordelia.)

[roseenglishdeluxe-blog]

Here’s a little song I wrote.

#friends #growing up

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Thin Ribbons of Rainbows

Thin ribbons of rainbows, In a place called heaven, From lasers, they billow, and wrap me Forever, I still go so often, And dance through the weather, Of battering bodies, And climatic spirit, I go.

Through this thorny thicket, In my palace of thinking, I drag myself smoking, and bleeding, To lighter days, But forever, I still do so often, Hide in the safety, Of this battered body, And climatic spirit.

And now I stand old, Beneath streetlight coldness, The landscape so flat, And so square and so concrete, And brick theatre building, With tarnishing copper, And others conversing, So ‘other,’ just daunting, I lie in the safety of this battered body. And climatic spirit.

Thin ribbons of rainbows, In a place I call heaven, From lasers, they billow, And wrap me so often, I dance through the weather, Convulse to the music, And batter my body, And poison my spirit, Until my eyes open, Though surrounded by sunlight, A sick heaving sunlight, That thinks aloud in its Loud, thriving laughter. Where do we go when it Closes thereafter? We lie in the safety Of our battered bodies, Our climatic spirits.