125 "It's hard to dance with the devil on your back; stuff that dreams are made of..."

Pumping ourselves full of alcohol so I can talk your shit and stand there attempting to behave like a "normal" person. You may no think it is very real but sometimes you have to put on the mask to get to the essence of what it is.  At the end of the day we are all human... all spewing and sicking up the crap that got squeezed into us in some kind of attempt to give some meaning to this social sickness. Maybe it is just a way to be human. I just want to have fun and forget about the pointlessness of it all. I can't be guilty of smiling and singing and dancing.
  If we pose for the camera. Flash my face. Flash my teeth. I'm grimacing at that little bit of ego and spitting in their faces. Fuck. I know I look good (or I feel good - for once)  and YES it is disappointing - and we wish we weren't like that - but I want people to see you here with me. Maybe. Just maybe pretending is reality and if I take it far enough I forget myself and we can just LIVE. If it all for nothing we might as well do IT ALL. you know who I am.
   Disco Balls. Disco ball. My body likes to dance and it is me when I am free.
Walking past the paparazzi. Maybe they are a "star" but today I feel more and maybe we are just young and beautiful . You mean more to me and that is what counts.
  The devil calls us in. Snaky grin in this den of antiquity. If we squint and drink all those suited booted twats disappear and it is just you and me, the gold and the dancing.
    She twisted in the sky. There visions will be gone in the morning but this is feeling. At this point in time I can do anything.
   I suck up the champagne from her mouth filling me up with light joy. I am she. Candlelight does not compare but it glows enhancing the euphoria.
   This is a game of russian roulette but tonight I am on top and the blood does not stop moving. They are watching. Everyones watching. Bare foot dancing. Stamping and Swirling. That arrow shoots right through in to my heart and I am flying. Wrapping myself around you shuddering... up to the stars?
  This is not a dream. This is what I am feeling right now. The truth. Snippets of pure sight.

The Doors: When Your Strange

People are strange when you're a stranger
Faces look ugly when you're alone
Women seem wicked when you're unwanted
Streets are uneven when you're down

When you're strange
Faces come out of the rain
When you're strange
No one remembers your name
When you're strange
When you're strange
When you're strange

Moment of inner freedom
when the mind is opened and the
infinite universe revealed
& the soul is left to wander
dazed & confus'd searching
here & there for teachers & friends.

Jim Morrison

Past, present, future?

I just want to get away from everything.
I am going to crawl in to a box and never get out.
I AM in a box and there is no way out.
Humanity is fucked up.

I used to think I was stronger than this.
I was stronger than this.
I used to think there was a reason why I was obliged to be stronger than this.
That it was right to carry on?
I just don't think there is any point in it anymore.
Whats the point in being strong and moving on, in putting the shit behind you, in fighting, in not letting it get to you - because it doesn't get better.
We are never going to win against this thing called "life".
I don't know why I would keep on going apart from to survive. To live an existence.
I don't want to exist. Exist for what? For the shit and the dirt. Just to be another fucked up human being in a
crumbling, futile world.
Not for this.

I can't get away from myself.
I can't get away from everyone else.
I don't want to be full of this hate.
And so so so so so tired of waiting for it to STOP.

My memory is torturing me.
The present is tiring.
The future is not going to be any better.

Show

Watching someone lie there
Leg sticking out from under the big red bus
Life sunken in to the tarmac.
Smashed window screen.
I wonder what mangles  breath has escaped that limp body.
That means nothing.
I don't know whether this makes me feel anything.
Life gone. Is gone somewhere and I can't absorb it.
That screaming girl.
Am I just cold or is the sickness hidden away?
I push it to the back of empty ness and yes I can't get the image out of my head.
You could have been wonderful.
Why do people stare?
This is not a show.

Parasite

My swollen stomach protrudes sordid and dirty throbbing from the rasping rakish ribs.
What shape is bulging from my body in some kind of truth
Or hint at reality?
The rest of me withered and withdrawn.
Sucked from flesh into the cavernous centre as it swells and stinks.
Pain pushing outward.
Some creature born within hosts itself
Latched on to my soul. My life not it it its.
I feel this thing drain my blood
As its bulbous laugh lunges and staggers around.
Swimming in stained sensuous lies
I know not what it is or do not care to have something drain my body.
If I could latch leeches and lure it out
I would but never to understand.
Just to be released.
My legs buckle as tension tightens around
My throat and stops me from swallowing.
Stumbling at every step I still do not expect this to be here.
My breath does not feel like my lungs
They cannot bear to breathe this foul dirty air anymore.
Detachment is the key.
Ignorance is everything.
If I could rip out its heart I would and therefore feel weightless.

Beginning again... for everyone.

This formidable mecca stands before me.
Towering from this concrete craned city
The sunlight bathes it is a holy light.
Cathedral to my world.

My artist does not belong in this fashion queue.
I mouse squeak.
I mouse scowl.

The sky is bigger than reality.
Grey shining slabs of lighted stone reach out.
Squares of vastness
Squares of symmetry and structure and sameness.

This vat of creative energy potentially excites my beginning.
There is no fire.
The writing is wrong.
This will be a beginning.
To escape mouse?
To swim . see.

I know how to start but the finish line is far far away.
This sun is standing above this temple and I am wondering what will become.
Waiting and wasting is not the point.
The point is what is in my mind.

Cenrtal St Martins.
Kings Cross.
2011.

Raven girl

She's so sad and her bodies not moving.
Locked in her room cos her minds going crazy.
Her raven hair is shining
But her pale skin is starving.
Hidden in the darkness.
Sunken lightness.
She is so special
But she doesn't know it.
I see her music moving through her rigid elbow
Leaking from her soul.
Sound fills her world but it's all blacked up.
Draw up our love and keep fighting back.
Sun fading backwards fast through the clouds in her room.
Her large hazel eyes hold so much strung up.
Your tender and gentle I see al your fear.
Girl your so blessed but I can't get in.
Your feelings messed up
China doll you put out so strong.
Just let out whats wrong.
Your lips are quivering under red paint. Ruby red.
The girl without finger tips.
Cut off lock of hair.
Don't cry little sister.
Not without letting it go.
Run with the notes and play with the keys.
Feel the fresh air and escape to wild sea.
Follow the river.
Music run free.

SwanSong

Dappled light plays chords
Swimming swirling patterns on
The skulking listless lake.
She gazes out into mystery.
Her kissless lips seek
Uncomforting rays.
She longs for what she lost far far away.
She lost because it does not exist without her loosing her freedom.
Her feet trapped in entrancement
Beating and binding
Pointing and punctuating the uncomfortable stillness.
Her jerking neck stretching out to the remaining hopeless sun.
Bare skin.
Bare skin.
Exposed to the breeze and the shadows of the crippled trees
Watching and waiting
Whispering to the muddied earth.
She longs to love or be loved.
To feel her feathered wing to be free
To be loved by something beautiful.
Her wildness catches her breath as she swirls and sways.
Her poor madness longing and lusting for touch.
She sings wailing wishes to the watery world.
The world that holds the deep dark desires
Where fished conspire to eat and gnaw at her feelings alive.
She flairs her arms as the gasp at last life.
To feel this bound up
Last fight and flight from the such strife.
The devils last whispers of temptation and fear cast spells on her senses.
Her very last tear.

Her shoes wont stop dancing an emotional death.
Her eyes wont stop streaming
Oceans silently falling
Her turning and kicking
Dancing music of sighing.
The wind in the rushes
The doom in the sky
The love that she feels
Such a burning desire.
A furnace an explosion
Her heart burning up
To die for the love
Of an ephemeral ghost.
A moment of dreaming
To dance not alone.
The drinking of truth from her spirit by God
Her swan is a symbol
A prison of life.
She sinks into deepness
The playing doesn't stop.
Her breath failing
And stopping
Not gasping for life.
She lets herself float higher and higher.
No fighting her fate as she falls darker and darker.
Her mind is the clearest
She knows what she loves
To die for this beauty
The beauty of HER love.

Painting in petals of the past

Stalk as dry as her cracking brittle bones
Scraping at the corners of the air,
Scratching the rim of the replacement vase.
The cold shiny steel sucking the stained roses red bloodless life.
Their fragile state holds time
Moves place.
The transient shadow cast on the new greying wall wavers hitting cold damp air,
Floating through dimmed window shattered plate, pane of glass,
Bladed past.
One petal remains.
Hanging on as if clinging to some purity lost in new found innocence.
White overpowered by sordid bleeding blight.
These roses are old and belong to a different me.
There is a pink to the grisly rain and these emblems need to run free.
The petals in my palm shiver on the wind as they scatter into the swirling sea.
The earth takes on a new form
Painting patters of pain that is, that are, too pretty to see.
Sinking deeper and darker the gentle flash fades away.
Waves of pleasure hit and eb and flow in new found ecstasy of my lost found mind.

79

And it starts with 79. 79 repeated. The day seems lost on me but I sit and I smile.
This is new and I'm not sure why it feels so right. Maybe it is the people. I like the light.
The streets feel different around here and the air is that holiday air. It is that different colour that tints my eyes. A haze that fills my breath. The cranes outside loom but I see them as wild creatures. Fantastical beings symbolising this fantasy world. Fantasy in a good way. Where I want to be alive because the point is just to be free. My face is tired. I could crawl under the covers and remember everything. The roses remain.

On Time and Writers Block

There are fixed points in time when everything changes. It is something that you should get down in words but the words don't explain much. Change is natural. Sometimes it is gradual but the points where they are instant are the only true moments of clarity. When your sure about something. Reason and cosequence. It doesn't mean it won't change again but this shift in the universe means something and it has to mean moving forward. I have been there many before but the constant repetition reaches a breaking point. Writing becomes boring. You have heard it all before. We all have. Trying to get to the actual centre of it all and pinpointing the right phrases is too difficult a task to take on so therefore I don't write. Trying to write creates an itching of the mind because it just isn't coming out in all those complex layers that you want it to. The mind isn't in a sentence. It is confusion and contradiction and conscious and unconscious. A stream of everything and never ever ever ever stops. A waterfall of everything trapped in this small little box. That vast space of thoughts and feelings and urges and longings and emotions all caught up in a little black hole. Communication is a constant struggle. Looking at the sky helps. Standing there with nothing but the world. My face is touching the air. I am in the world. That is what matters.

Pianorama (after curtain call) - to the sound of chords and such

Discord is a frenzy of your movement or the disquiet in my limbs
As notes pour and converse with your or mine
Or it or who.
Black and white is filled with greys and brights
Colour and movement and melodious sight.
Circular light is nothing without these eyes.
Waiting for the next touch is a caress to the ground
Jabbing or subtle dancing of finger upon finger.
The repetition drowns the imagination and jars at my irritation
But the blinking lid opens and flows off into sporadic dreams.
Translate into words without speech and stop waiting.
My ears are a window into what could be the strands of being.
The purpose to absorb something and disarm the present.

Head

The wolves are out dancing under the moon
She's running on her mind and tripping on her skirt
It's reaching her ankles and she's naked once again.
Limbs glowing white under the howling skies.
The flying isn't fear
And the wind is free and fixed on her fierce burning stare.
My feet feel the earth, pounding the ground.
Nature's spell stole on her smile
Whip her fast and ruin her body
Thorns through her heart
Are briars to her finger tips.
Stabbing means EVERYTHING.
Blood is thicker than her skin
She is bleeding from her eyes
She fell in love with the wild things and now the haunting won't go away.
You wont get her back
Her wings got torn off
Her hair collecting feathers
Leaves poking through her skin
Her lips stopped speaking but snarling and spitting.
Ravenous hunger for flesh upon flesh.
Mud up her legs.
Closer to dirt. Ripping at scabs on her heart.
Cos her head is the earth and her hearts buried deep.
The darkness is light
And the stars her angels - She's in love with the wolfman and she lost her head.

Richard III (and speaking to The Old Vic)

Photographs taken by Laura Mary Link taken at The Old Vic Theatre - workshop lead by current director of "Richard III) Bruce Guthrie

Spot the orange trousers... (that's me) 

And she was born for the theatre...

On Monday I stood on the stage at the Old Vic and spoke to the theatre. I miss the stage. Speaking makes me feel alive.  Shakespeare gives oneself a purpose. The genius is in the words.

 

"O, I have passed a miserable night,

So full of fearful dreams, of ugly sights,

That, as I am a Christian faithful man,

I would not spend another such night

Though 'twere to buy a world of happy days--

So full of dismal terror was the time.

Methoughts that I had broken from the Tower

And was embarked to cross the Bergundy,

And in my company my brother Gloucester,

Who from my cabin tempted me to walk

Upon the hatches: thence we looked toward England

And cited up a thousand heavy times,

During the wars of York and Lancaster,

That had befall'n us. As we paced along

Upon the giddy footing of the hatches,

Methought that Gloucester stumblèd, and in falling

Struck me (that thought to stay him) overboard

Into the tumbling billows of the main.

O Lord! methought what pain it was to drown!

What dreadful noise of waters in mine ears!

What sights of ugly death within mine eyes!

Methoughts I saw a thousand fearful wracks;

A thousand men that fishes gnawed upon;

Wedges of gold, great anchors, heaps of pearl,

Inestimable stones, unvaluèd jewels,

All scatt'red in the bottom of the sea:

Some lay in dead men's skulls, and in the holes

Where eyes did once inhabit, there were crept

(As 'twere in scorn of eyes) reflecting gems,

That wooed the slimy bottom of the deep

And mocked the dead bones that lay scatt'red by.

I passed (methought) the melancholy flood,

With that sour ferryman which poets write of,

Unto the kingdom of perpetual night.

The first that there did greet my stranger soul

Was my great father-in-law, renownèd Warwick,

Who spake aloud, 'What scourge for perjury

Can this dark monarchy afford false Clarence?'

And so he vanished. Then came wand'ring by

A shadow like an angel, with bright hair

Dabbled in blood, and he shrieked aloud,

'Clarence is come -- false, fleeting, perjured Clarence,

That stabbed me in the field by Tewkesbury:

Seize on him, Furies, take him unto torment!'

With that (methoughts) a legion of foul fiends

Environed me, and howlèd in mine ears

Such hideous cries that with the very noise

I, trembling, waked, and for a season after

Could not believe but that I was in hell,

Such terrible impression made my dream. " Clarence in William Shakespeare's Richard III

Displacement of the calm

Stomach will not stay still
Eyes flickering
I can't think about anything else
It is that feeling of something flowing around your body that you don't want to be there
I don't like this
Pack it away.
I can't.
It stays.
And everything seems to be against us at the moment.
Universe.
I am asking for your help.
No settling.
I am in the wrong body.
Can accept everything else
But we are running out of time to just move on.
Be with me.
It is the shaking of the skin.

Pink daze

In the pink dress
She hovers floating above the sea
An ephemeral future.
My dreams are all the time
If only they could fill all the grey and  stop to breathe.
Reality doesn't matter to my soul but it inflicts my body.
If I could escape the monotonous daze.
The repetitive repetition of existence.
The over and over and over and over of the pointless
Materiality of empty existence.
Time flows and is wasting the thinking
Freedom tied and bound and suffocated in the lesser mundane
Life running through wasted water.
Ged rid of this burden.
Society sells the sun to the soulless.
And be free.

Obvious

Smoke and water in the electric streets
The umbrellas blow your mind.
Mutant skin sticks to sodden sky
The snake wont bite you because it has lost its eye
Shed its scales in dystopia
Puddles piss pools of stars.
The money doesn't matter anymore
The vision is counting down
The yellow mackintosh absorbing air.
Guns blow holes in your heart
The doll feels everything.

Miserable lie

It is just feeling so lonely.
Not having someone to fill every moment or just knowing that there is someone there to fill every moment of time with the knowledge that they will always love you.
Alone makes one weak and it is so hard. Well in these moments it is so hard.
I wish the pain didn't start choking my neck and strangling me like barbed wire closing around my breath.
I get this feeling where my lungs wont fill up properly and it is like I am being pushed into the floor and my spine is being pushed up so small and the walls of my body are shutting in.
My eyes well up and I am drowning in uncontrollable tears and anger. So much anger. Anger and terror and hate and hate and hate. Its the hate I can't escape from. Not the love.
It is inly you who makes me feel like this or makes by body react in this way. I used to get it at other things. I used to get upset at other things but now its just you. I wonder what I will do if I ever move on. Maybe I need something to get upset about? But why do I have to hate?
I just want something to fill my time or someone to fix me like a doll but now I am too scared of people.
Blocked out. Who wants it to be easy? Just all of this makes me feel like
my future is something I have to get through.
Just cover your face.
I don't like it anymore.

And it always gets so much worse when I am banned from fucking anything... or when I fuck too much.

To the "boy" on the bike...

To the wannabee whatever on your stupid bike...thinking your a hard man, with your bigged up voice. This world is full of shit like you. I have seen a lot worse. Underneath your probably a nice boy. Trying to prove something to yourself. Or others? Who Knows?
I know I don't want your drugs or your cock and attempting to grab my "arse" could have been the biggest mistake of your life. "Fuck you, seriously fuck you, you picked the wrong girl because I am one crazy bitch and you come near me again I will kick your fucked up head in. Leave your mind for dogs to spit out." ... Luckily for him he got scared and road off as fast as he could.

Tuesday's thoughts whilst waiting

I think you are going to irritate me for the rest of my life. If you stopped maybe I could stop regretting everything to do with you. I understand the irrational behaviour - I am hardly rational myself - but you seem to have no understanding of an end. Everything ends. Or at least changes. There has to be a point when you say no more. Your unintelligence confuses me. Your childishness makes me angry. Only because I know you have the capability of being more than that. Everyone does. Very little "behaviour" makes me angry to a point where I don't understand but your blindness is too hard for me to comprehend. The frustration is frustrating. It has been going on like this for months. You don't change. How can you not change? It isn't funny or a game - how can you refuse your control? Are you really planning on spending your life like this? Because quite frankly it is ridiculous.

                                                                                                                                                                         


Grey floor.
Are they doing everything they can to make me feel uncomfortable?
Waiting games.
Waiting rooms.
I am staring in to space trying to force a source of inspiration.
Smily girl.
Voice doesn't match the face.
Your job must be such a drone.
I wish I wasn't so scared of doctors.
Maybe I would tell them how I feel.
Sometimes I come close.
But I know it's text book.
What is that fake tree doing in the corner?
Honestly - who makes decisions like this?
I just want to get out of here.
I don't care about the chair.
Cloud music isn't helping.
Not that I feel particularly strongly against it.
It is just hilarious that it is such an obvious but failed institutional choice to create a "pleasant" environment.
My life is my own.
The setting annoys me.
Obviously I am having an annoyed day.
Or just pretending to.
At the end of the day I am the one using the service.
It's just waiting to step out into the real world again.
Not that the street is any more real.
But the sky is.

                                                                                                                                                                      


Sometimes I feel like I am the only person in the world that feels right.
Sometimes I feel like I am the only person in the world that feels wrong.
In reality this doesn't matter. Neither is true.
What ever a feeling is it is transient. We will never know what it means.
What it means to feel.

                                                                                                                                                                      


God it must be so awful for you sitting here with your Bible surrounded by all us degenerate sex crazed scum. It just intrigues me. I assume people like you wouldn't be here. Now I want to know why.