~saturnineguise

i'll be away until this time next week, even though i'm horribly behind already, i promise i'll catch up as soon as i can.


as the title suggests, i shall be following one of my favourite bands around the country. again. heh porcupine *cough* tree *splutter* *heart attack* ahem *death*.


and now for something completey un-python related:


i want music recommendations, because i love music and always want more (maybe some of you remember the music whore thing...), and it also gives me an interesting insight into other people. what we love and loathe gives an insight into ourselves.



so recommend away.

your splinters of personality crash heavy along my jaw-line, making a dive for the in-between spaces beside each rib
they dig their feet into the hollow of my back and make me arch across myself in a constant closing flower, a bridge to insincere

i called you up a few times, heard you say hello like someone else i used to know, quick and questioning - not like a normal kind of question - but like a question of reality. are you there? no i'm not. and you would've heard a beep beep and not my voice. not my little whispers of breath as i inhaled quick so i would not fall into a heap of myself, melt into a puddle of wicked witch. i can't dissect that, not exactly. i can't tell you why i hate the sound of my voice echoing across porcelain.

i cannot tell you why i do not like people overhearing my conversations. i mean, well, i could, but i cannot. don't ever ask me too much of myself; i don't give secrets away.

i'll just smile at you and dance the swerving, constantly pirouetting dance of changing the subject. but you pick up up up. tell me to forget. i forget the trains, the pulling into the stations, the silent, sound draining way that all noise faded into a blur as fast as my rain dropped to your feet. little eye clouds, little lightning strikes of my teeth, on my mouth.

you didn't ask me.

and i wonder what it is to be held by a memory. an aching distortion of reality. and as years disintegrate into spent calendars and tougher skin, i wonder about the mess we're in. about the way held gazes are swayed so much easier for the knowing. how we do not look this way anymore.

i was just wondering if she received it, if the little envelope with a smoking man would have been enough to open up a smile between her lips, big, so someone nearby who was lucky enough to catch that moment could see her shining eyes.


i think i owe her that letter i wrote her but never sent. i think i do.


i think i owe him an explanation, and an imsorry, and a big old slap in the face.

i think i owe him another question.


i think i owe her another drink, and more of my mind.

i think i owe him a sideways swipe, a kick in the ass, and a joke from years ago.

i think i owe her a reason for why it is still so easy, so hard and so everything.

i think i owe him. big.

[i feel adored
when im making for the exit sign]

It is blatant. It stays stark, starched in the white of morning, daring me to call its bluff. But it is naked and innocent and it plays with my morals as if conduct was based on more than want. Blurring the lines of need.

With anxious teeth perusing the fruit of lips, skin flakes gelatinising behind calcium shovels... and then the worst sort of onomatoepia. Soft skin and fine lines vanish from behind my eyelids winking out as I blink open.

I take the call.

(and if you heard me speak you'd know why I don't.)


--

A taste revolves around a moment I replay and rewind when I'm on buses, sometimes on trains, but I haven't taken a train for so long, I've very nearly forgotten what it feels like to sleep all the way home and wake up to the familiar sound of the train almost falling through the bridge right before my stop.


--

They ripped up the last barricade and got rid of the trees, I start to think about the planter boxes they bricked in when I was nine. How the red flowers were so stylised that I was so sure they were fake. How I ran to no one and nothing and stared intently at the sky, even then.


--

It was never enough to stand next to you drinking milkshakes; even now, you don't offer an exchange based on more than reused to the point of forgetting the why.


I never could. And you delude yourself; I smile to make you feel better. I do all of these things and in the end selflessness is just a facet of selfishness.


--

And if we don’t sing it is a sign.

--


It perplexed me, one day --

Once (...) my ever after came with bruises.


to the point of perfection


nothing much to say


--

Jester called last night, seems we forgot to pick up a few things.
He said not to worry, that he'd fix everything once we sorted through it all, said he'd pick up all the scattered drawers from the floor, kiss all the fallen angels and procure a panacea for these things I really shouldn't be feeling.

Would it be alright if I asked for some anaesthesia with my philter?

A glass of warm milk with my anodyne?

A solvent for my empty speech bubbles.

--

Scrub the walls. Scrub the walls harder.

"I was just guessing."

"But you were right."

--

I don't know what I should invest my belief in; want my money? You sound good.

Right away, right away, right away


--

dysfunction of communication. You didn't speak, and I never say a word.

--

I fell in love with a colour, and you never told me you thought I was wrong. I fell in love with purple and black and blue and you knew just how to help me with that.


(snippets of an old piece, that i just read for some reason. strangely fitting. odd.)

do women even wear socks? well yes, sometimes, is the answer to that.