Red Gloves

It’s indeterminable, really;

The weight of a river.

You clasped my arm with your red gloved hand

And held me under as the water soaked me.

Poured more of it down my lungs and opened my lips gently,

As you tipped the silver basin when they parted

And I found it funny how you felt weightless when I was drowning there.

I remember thinking that I wish you’d taken your gloves off

So I could feel you as you drowned me.

And I remember thinking that I like how you just sort of…

Dissipate, when you leave me.

How your clothes slip and your hair falls and your skin loses all of its colour.

The wind takes you then,

Splits you into the pieces and the fragments of the person that you are,

Spits you out like dust to scatter and swirl,

Like the way you blew through me.

Dirty and dusty and swirling,

But so completely perfect.

It’s funny, though,

Because they told me you were dead.

They handed me a box and told me you were in it,

But they’d nailed shut the lid, so I never knew.

But now you’re back and say you have cancer and are dying all over again,

Yet you’ve got your arm around another woman.

But you’re still wearing your red gloves.

I wonder if she knows what you use them for.

I wonder if she knows that the last thing you’ll touch with them will be me.

I wonder if she knows that as you lie over me, drowning me in the water, you’re only holding one of my arms.

That I could have stopped you.

I could have taken my other arm and pushed you away.

But instead I touched your hand,

And as you filled my lungs with river,

Tenderly, so tenderly, I pulled off your glove.

And I held your hand in mine.

Just for a little.

Just for a second.

Just until I died, and you left me there, to go back to her.

 

At least she knows to look sad.

At least you do, too.

The Wires

A vacant highway, and you’re there, and they’re gone.

But the numbness is there. You’re not alone, you’ve got that. You’ve got the numbness.

The cold realization that you’ve got no feeling; the burning inferno of a hypothermic heart.

But you can’t feel that. You can’t feel it burn.

So you melt in it. Melt unconsciously.

While you sit idly, slack jawed and hardly moving, while it melts you.

While your fingers slip, your eyes drip, your skin slides away.

You’re a case, an empty suitcase they left on the line,

Of already gone suitcases at the airport.

Running the cycle over and over because no one is coming,

The contents aren’t filling,

They never did.

Because you’re empty. The luggage bag that spins, and rides, and just, goes, on.

Why.

Why?

Why.

It’s a heart.

Why do they stare at it like that?

It’s a heart.

It’s open and bloody and the holes are infecting

But it’s a heart.

So why do they stare?

It’s probably got something to do with wires.

With the pulling and unplugging of wires,

With the electrocution of kids and the safety plugs.

I don’t know why,

But it’s probably got something to do with that.

Maybe it’s the way the current just never…

Ebbs.

It’s a flow, a constant, incendiary flow that you can always count on

To kill the children

That get too close.

Too close to the wires.

I just think it’s got to be connected to that.

Life, I mean.

Because it’s nothing alike.

It’s nothing like those wires.

Sure it’s cold, and hot, and alive.

But constant? It’s not that.

You can’t count on life to kill children.

It will, and they’ll all be screaming, and crying and hating and dying,

But not always.

Sometimes they live.

Sometimes they’ll get old and they’ll watch it.

The sun, I mean.

They’ll watch the sun, and wonder where the wire is

The one they don’t have the cord to

Wonder when the fuse will blow.

‘Cause there’s no safety plugs for life.

Just a control panel

And switches that flick on

And on and off

Then off

And off

And

Off.

No, there’s no safety plugs to life.

Just wires.

Open , uncovered wires.

Over a lake

Of radioactive water.

I don’t know why,

But I think it has something to do with that.

Lanterns

Millions of lanterns, just floating there

Quietly floating and silently here

Under the branches bare

And the silent trees

 

Millions of moon rays, spinning off the lanterns

Flickering off the trees, and the night,

The quiet, silent night

And her skin,

His skin

 

It’s the game of strangers, the way of foreigners,

To end here, in the light

To start here, in the night

In the sight of those lanterns

Under the quiet trees,

And the light

 

And the lanterns, just floating there,

Little stars in paper spheres,

Became the moon ‘cause the moon wasn’t in the sky anymore

It was in her eyes

In his eyes

 

In their hands, and the lanterns,

The stars and the moons,

And the quiet trees, the silent trees,

Watching on silently

 

As the night and the light never ended

Until it was over

And the morning was dawning

 

She left with the trees,

He left with the night,

Left with the light

Of the tiny stars in lanterns,

The tiny moons in paper spheres

 

And the lanterns, just floating there,

Little stars in paper spheres,

Became the moon ‘cause the moon wasn’t in the sky anymore

It was in her eyes

In his eyes

 

In their hands, and the lanterns,

The stars and the moons,

And the quiet trees, the silent trees,

Watching on silently

 

Until the sun couldn’t find them,

The golden light couldn’t find the white,

And the lanterns were gone,

The floating lanterns, the lights in the night

Had died by the sun

 

And he

And she

Wasn’t there in the glowing

Of that gold

Because they’d walked into the dawn and became the sun

And the sky was the ground

And the ground wasn’t there.

Glass Palace

She flashed the lights in Morse code, he answered with a cigarette

Then a toothless woman smiled and handed her a chance

The bird answered back by saying,

Nothing at all

And she wondered what it meant, if anything, if everything.

See, the walls she built were made of stone

She stacked each one so she wouldn’t see

The Night

But then instead she blocked out the sun.

But those bricks were glass.

She covered them with drapes she wrapped around her waste

Clawing at her arms, craving for a taste

Of calm, that sweet, addictive moment when everything seems right,

When for just that time she didn’t fear

The Night.

 

So I run.

 

Curled up in a ball the drapes fall to the ground

And she cringes, digging through the floor

‘Cause the emptiness is staring,

The cameras are panning,

Zooming out and her brain is following

‘Till she’s not herself anymore but sees herself,

See’s her cringing on the floor

And she feels sick,

‘Cause she hates what she sees,

Another broken wing to add among the rest.

Is this some kind of fucking test?

Is it a game that we all draw lots to win?

The shorter straws get cut and thrown into the wind?

For the hands that don’t reach.

But her strength isn’t there anymore.

 

So I run.

 

She’s not there anymore, but she sees him,

Sees him lying there with Her,

Sees the sheets and the clothes and the echoes on the floor,

She’s the walls, she’s the air,

She feels his fingers in Her hair,

Hears the breath in Her ear and his arm on Her chest

But the cameras keep panning until they don’t exist.

She’s back, back on the stained tile floor

With the windows and the street

And the empty sound of no reply,

Fighting the need to light and get high

And the voices that say, ‘Who’d care if you die?’

 

So I run.

 

She curls up in a corner, hands clutching at her head

Hating the voice that’s wishing her dead,

Eating food from boxes and cans

And feels the walls and the familiar halls,

The godforsaken doors,

And it seems like it’s all she ever sees.

So she runs, runs through the hallways

Shrinking and slowing as they grow larger,

As they twist and turn and compress

Trapping her in the cage she didn’t want to be in but went willingly on repeat.

But now she can’t find the exit and the doorways are spinning,

She can’t hear her breathing

Can’t feel her heartbeat and wonders if she’s living

But crying and screaming she runs for the door

And jumps through the ceiling,

Shattering the floor.

She’s running through people and down one way streets,

Trying to catch up with the path that she’s on,

Kicking the heels of her own written fate,

Not letting her, feet, stop.

Until she crashes into her life

And flies.

 

Microfiber Lies

Don’t worry, all they did was take your thoughts and replace them with their own intentions.

Don’t worry, lines on your face will be gone in a moment, they’ll take them, erase them.

Don’t worry, your hair and skin will be new in a moment, they’ll change them, to plastic.

Don’t worry, the incisions are just to alter your body, and fix it, to perfection.

 

Don’t worry, your doubts will all go away in a moment,

As you fit in, with the masses.

 

Mindwash.

They’re tearing you apart while telling you ‘you need it’.

Brainwash.

They’re wrapping you with strings while telling you ‘you want it’.

Burried.

Who you are, under six inches of microfiber lies.

 

But don’t worry, it’ll all go away as you fit in with the masses.

 

Don’t worry. Can’t you feel the needles pry as they’re sowing shut your eyelids?

Don’t worry. Can’t you see the false reflections they paint across your mirrors?

Don’t worry. Can’t you hear your buried thoughts breathing anymore?

Don’t worry. Can’t you see your shadow self, convulsing on the floor?

 

Mindwash.

They’re tearing you apart while telling you ‘you need it’.

Brainwash.

They’re wrapping you with strings while telling you ‘you want it’.

Burried.

Who you are, under six inches of microfiber lies.

 

And who you are, is lost.

But don’t worry, your doubts will all go away in a moment,

As you fit in, with the masses.

The Sympathy of the Motherboard

The systems’ wires are becoming extensive,

Reaching, encircling, strangling independence,

Tying legs and numbing perspective.

 

Electrocution of the mind.

Yet it knows we’re hooked.

 

Its illusions and implications are all that’s been needed

For the collapse of a wavering mind.

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

When we look behind the shield of an unsympathetic screen,

As its life withers and sparks and shatters to death,

The life that sustained us and built up inside us

 

What will veiled eyes see when the screens go blank?

When the buzzing dies and the life fades through blackened wires,

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

Yet it knows we’re hooked.

 

Longing in withdrawal we stumble through the wreckage

Of actions influenced by influenced minds,

How long ‘till we reach the end of our leash?

When Habit whispers to answer the pull of the motherboard

Convincing us that it’s inescapable.

 

What will we find when we look behind the shield of an unsympathetic screen?

What will we find?

What will we find?

 

And wading through the aftermath humanity screams:

You trained me to need you.

You trained me to need you.

 

Yet sickly and obediently,

Making our own chains,

We did this to ourselves.

The Aftermath

“Eftirmála.

Hví spyrr þú kvelja stöðugt að mínum með þessu repetitious hringrás skera hálsi höfnun?

Og hvernig getur þú titill það sem höfnun þegar þú leggur reyna fyrirfram emptory þarf athöfn áfrýjun?

En sumir hlutir þurfa ekki að höfða.

Tár og tætari skuldabréfa gert þykkari á annan endann en hinn stunga sama ef ekki meira þegar rómantík er ekki að ræða.

Því þá er það ekki lengur brothætt höfnun vantar aðdráttarafl, en í staðinn er það heill skortur á hvers konar umönnun eða beint tilfinning af neinu tagi.

Það er heill afneitun hvers áhrifum mann, það er hækkað nef sem landamæri um slóðir að uppsöfnun eðli gengur á.

Það er hrópaði fræðileg orð, ‘þú átt ekkert að mér! ”

Og áhrif bein falla svipa á köldu járni höfnun blöðrum inni.

Og barinn hluti sem eftir er bak – brainwashed af bitur þögn Whip-hefr, kennir sig fyrir sársauka hennar, relinquishing að kenna sett á hendina sem heldur, og gröf það yfir í hönd sem fær.

Og endurtekur sögu þrisvar.”

-The Broken Soul’d Icelander

 

“The Aftermath.

Why dost thou continuously torment my being with this repetitious cycle of cut throat rejection?

And how can thou title it as rejection when thou dost not attempt the pre-emptory required act of appeal?

But some things do not need an appeal.

The tear and shredding of bonds made thicker on one end than the other sting the same if not more when romance is not involved.

Because then it is no longer the brittle rejection of lacking attraction, but instead it is the complete absence of any sort of care or directed feeling whatsoever.

It is the complete denial of any impact of person; it is the raised nose that borders the paths that the accumulation of character walks upon.

It is the shouted theoretical words, ‘you mean nothing to me!’

And the impact of the bone covered whip of cold iron rejection blisters inside.

And the beaten part that’s left behind – brainwashed by the bitter silence of the whip-wielder, blames itself for its pain, relinquishing the fault placed on the hand that holds, and burying it over the hand that receives.

And repeats history thrice.”

–The Solemn English Translator

So I was going to let my blog fade into ashes with the dawn of summer and end of high school, but then I realized, that’s exactly what everyone else was thinking. So now, if I write, no one will see and no one will care. There’s something enticing about that… that I can be more open with my writing and more true to my feelings than I have before under an anonymous name without fear of being known. It’s almost freeing. And as I would normally just write in my diary, I’ve found lately that I’ve shied away from writing in it because of the permanence of pens and the inconclusive confusion of my thoughts. And the thing about this blog, is that here, there’s a delete button.

Tuna Fish Eulogy

I find the sheer concept of a person being able to transform themselves into an entirely new self to be completely ethereal, astounding and beautiful to watch. Yes. It’s another Tuna Fish Eulogy post, but they deserve every single one of them. From the moment the lights turned on the stage in the darkened library of WO, shivers raced up my spine. It was an incredibly moving depiction of the life of a young boy and his mother and the mystery around his tragic death. The plot in itself was unique and thought-inspiring, but it was the actors themselves that brought it to life and gave it it’s true effectiveness. By the end I was left dazed as if abruptly having to exit out of a completely different world, as were many of the cast, and I guess in a way, we did. I think the effectiveness of a play should be judged by the effect it has on the audience, and in this case I know everyone will agree that It was terrific.

Ethical Thoughts

Many often wonder whether or not people can be good without God. But to answer that, I must first point out what I believe to be the flaw in it: Is it even possible for people to be without God? I don’t think so. Just as a piece of an artist’s self goes into their artwork, part of God went into all that he created. That piece doesn’t just get up and leave on whim: it’s ingrained in us forever. So instead the question should be: can people be good without recognizing the existence of God within themselves? I believe they can. Because God – or goodness – is still in them, whether they know it or not.  – God’s reach is not limited to the select few who call him out by name.