amateur hikikomori

this week I have had two panic attacks over losing a collection of short stories by Will Self because I can’t remember buying the book so convinced myself that I had made them up in my head & they never actually existed & have instead of just been sat in a warm bath reading a Penguin Edition of Grey Area I must have just been sat there watching bubbles in a trance whilst I drool prose of English suburbs across my brain until I convince myself of a conclusion decide to shut an imaginary book {careful not to get the pages wet} & dry myself & shave myself & go to sleep then go to work & really when you begin to get into it all it unravels like fresh tripe out of a bucket so like what is real is the book real was the warm water real how do I remember how to tie a tie when I can’t remember learning did I invent Will Self because without the internet I would have no reference I would have no transition of life as which to compare mine to slipping by you know like a river or something & I’m a bit of impermeable stone that never gets to move but then you hear the tripe slap on the chopping board waiting to be seasoned by vinegar & think Christ what If the internet is a figment of my imagination how I can tell if anything is real now because it is rare to experience something with someone else when I feel something I can’t think why because I never remember learning it in the first place.

Anyway, I found my copy of Grey Area by Will Self, about a third of the way through, & eager to get back to where I left off, before I think, It was me who interrupted. 

Les Miserables

poemsvsvolcano:

Think about people
singing for a second.
Think about what you
can’t outsmart. One
joins the precision as
one learns to accept it:
It’s not even a musical.
It’s less a haircut
(at this point) than a
narrowing of terms.
An understudy shouts
your part in pencil.
Your kisses lack carbs
& your throat hides
a limp. Hips will lie—
Paris sucks. The heart
is only ruling under
the threat of revolt.




SWD

relationship poetry

it’s hard to be inspired to write poems from one-night-stands. i’m much more into flash relationships. where the one-night-stand turns into a three-day-stand & it only ends because one of us has to go to casualty.

From A essay on poetics called.

I went to the edge of my mind & all I got was this all consuming urge to write poems until something disappears 

Haiku For The Girl From Bhutan Who Keeps Plaiting Her Hair Under A Weeping Willow By A Slow Bend Of A Pink River In My Dreams

I want to crush you

& bash you into a spoon;

dew falls on a branch