westid

edit: i spare a thought for anyone who feels the ambivalence of wanting to throw up and at the same time rendezvous back to the scene of the crime and drive it in, crawling through no man’s land in the pointless potter’s fields with my feelings so fucked it actually feels like the climb

i wear on me an aura, that no one else can see. like some sort of enchantment that radiates all over me. it’s toxic somehow but i don’t know how. if i had to describe it, there’s a whole vocabulary to choose from but … as i try to explain it … it just feels weird, and weird is the only feeling i can describe right now

maybe like a soul, or a spirit, or a curse. i don’t believe in many superstitious things. whenever i try to give it everything i’ve got, it just throws me straight into reverse. am i looking at some kind of ironic new take i’ve been passive aggressive given this, silent but indignant, targeted team effort, that i have fallen prey to many a time before? are the people [for one reason or another] having crouched outside in the darkness looking back on me yet oblivious to the back yard / missing a set of step ladders really some innocuous presence by now that i may as well ignore? should i take the time to dignify these presences because they are testing some boundaries that only rumour has so far set, and these people – whoever they are, and for whatever purpose – are gaining ground upon the fact that, late at night particularly, i’m either moving around / talking in my sleep, or i’m still awake in stir but i can’t tell the difference any more …. (?)

weird is my cloak they hide behind in darkness, invisible to all of the equipment albeit a presence in the mind’s eye. weird is my sceptre, of what things look like when i decide to jump down off the fence i’ve been peacefully leaning on, only to instantly regret it as i am inspired by whatever example of the beauty and the ambience of life going on around me, pick a side to join in on then get scalded severe for the fact that i thought it would be nice for all of us if i try. still gets a wasted spin on the wheel, weary of the spiritual attrition though, am i

even though i don’t know what form it comes in until someone brings it, weird is the strange – ordinary things – that suddenly take hold while i write my thoughts that start to ooze, corrupt, walk all over, and all the other devious yet hardly at all sexual shit that you may have noticed at times starts to accumulate at penultimate peak times of the dopamine supply going through my living brain

it started while i hardly noticed something completely ordinary, and then somehow adore that no woman no matter who their partner is can’t get a new pair of nice looking sneaks without showing their ankles. and – simultaneously, not connected at all, but at the same time adds itself on – it’s as though the crocs thing i had from what 10-14 years ago i said “is just a matter of time” finally lands on you all just when i was already starting to give up on that imminent philosophy, was it just a fluke or were these weird fascinations always destined to take hold of you and inevitably catch up with me

see that’s something – a very subtle drip drip falling in an atlantic ocean of radio-rental monu-mental mindfuckery – of that unseen thing other people wear it too, so it’s not just me, it could happen to you?

then there’s the other things, because i wear all that too. we don’t need to spend the rest of the post going there, either. and i’ve not even got two paragraphs worth of that shit any more that will further explore the obvious and sadistic betrayal, because i stood up for someone who was being bullied once, to try – with proof you can have any time you want – and give you

the only thing that still bothers me is that we will never laugh, i will never share your good company again. even though what i just said there, you already know all that, don’t you … * too deep for an emoji *

alright snap out of it, we’re back in the room. these things that i wear, i go outside and i wear them all on the outside. then i come home and i wear all them on the inside

i laugh hysterically as i candid reminisce at the good times, and hope that probability loses the war so there lays in store more of them. there’s an inner conflict whether i should let go and leave these things to chance… i should hold on for another day, it will always feel worth looking at / building another way and try to bridge over the problem

one of my many tangents here can make such dutiful thoughts that come to me so clear, but as i get near; other feelings like fear – no one takes me seriously and even if i really want to mend the respect one or two might have lost for me – if it looks like a piss take, i won’t walk away without something to show for it… if i’m still walking; i wear my “ey up … straight-forward sense of self preservation mate,” here

maybe the emperor could have chose not to wear these new clothes. perhaps they were put onto him, if the victor in charge of the present, writes the past then he controls the way the story was told – mindful of the fact that the humiliation was unavoidable – he would rather the archaic history written on ancient scrolls gave us a different narrative, and this is another example of how someone can wear things unknowingly cast themselves into contexts / play untold roles that don’t exist to touch [sometimes see] but you can feel them. even if you’re not particularly sun kissed and exotic, there are things an unpredictable – some won’t even know it yet until you do something that makes them notice what you’re wearing on you – unlabelable demographic of people of any sex or gender, are either just about to see you in person; whose thoughts are imminently going to remember … and just like that whatever their mind can render, you’re wearing a brand new game changer, world ender

it’s not the end of the world though, is it? it could be. as a part of my rehabilitation from nothing, even though i’m not forced to do it any more, i am trying to explore things like garments, trinkets, accessories; that i’m wearing / once wore. and even if you’re so buttoned down, professional, you actually feel the face ache the further you go into the day, i’ve noticed that i still can’t ignore – something that i can’t see or can easily fail to grasp – an essence that’s unspoken in all of us, a subtle underscore between clandestine and the subliminal third that the spoken word can never perceive beyond what speaks simply the floor, beyond which nothing more

strange that my chain of thought always seems to end here. i sit and fuck about pondering what perfectly would have still happened, without the extra little niceness and effort someone makes, going above and beyond the simple task of box ticking almost looks like doing whatever it takes. showing real “emotional leakage,” coming up to my level and squaring away their mistakes. unlikely, un-necessary, yet affected still – some way i don’t live up to my word / let them down – it’s as though their heart is in it, and yes it’s beating, and it breaks. please, if you’ve got my attention i’m listening. please, educate me … for all our sakes

you might have thought it old fashioned, but when someone tears off their face to reveal the one beneath it., mash and in my face shove theirs – smooching a proper personality prosthesis, appropriately cold to the touch – that’s the only moment when i realise all these things each of us wears, but it’s always too late by that point as i fall from grace and land into feeding time for theirs, poisoned and ripped to pieces by a flaxen nest, until this point but not now well camouflaged, a pit of snakes

petrified, i turn to stone. frozen in rock, they excavate my passion to spend an eternity tended to by the curator, in the exhibitions of the phony tough, the crazy brave, the fools, those that fell for such blantantly fraudulent but fanciful and pleasing folderol of fakes