24 January 2003 - 11:22 am
unpoet.

or i could just be wrong about everything.

//

now at a crossroads of the mind, wherein one road goes north - south & the other east - west. oh fuck me. so unpoetic today. lapsing out of "gormenghast" in a few pages, that being twenty-odd soon, and after a marathon session of heartbreak and guarded tensions in the box office, i find myself returning to this my solitary abode and to shriek at the door being closed so firmly behind me.

oh in such flux today. oh back and forth and crawling up the windowpane like an angel-bug smashed by god's little finger and there is no heavenly retreat for this lost soul. even though i am not lost nor have i a soul. in the criminally biblical sense, that is. oh fuck me, so unpoetic today.

(take me in my dreams recurring) get the fuck out of my head.

//

"i am not a strong person," i say, and i'm guarded, and my eyes must reflect that.

"i know," i get in return, and the phone begins to ring and i'm wishing that i never put down gormenghast, that i was still swimming in the depths of the slowly drowning castle, side-by-side the rain-flattened titus as he stalks the masonry seeking the hunch-shoulders of steerpike ... seeking something. the dark fuschia as ophelia, the sere and twisted lightning like old lady hands crackling with arthritis. so unpoetic today.

deathly white and pallourous i am, with no protein to furnish my bones! "how are you doing?" i get.

"i'm here," i reply.

//

i don't know if i should feel bad or if this is another cat-and-mouse game. not a conscious game, mind you, but another confusion of the id, of the ego, the superego preening sitting back on a throne made of fingernails and cat's eyes, wherein the Hypocrite sits like a recumbent triangle, hypotenuse religious only in the sense that it must be to equal the correct formula. oh SO unpoetic today.

i'm convinced of myself that this is another confusion, that this is a facade, a damask of "knowing", of "being happy" ... or something. but this is something i must keep close to a locked-up heart. though hugs last for a minute or so and i become aware of how cruelly configured my face must seem - "questo mia faccia" - it ends and there's another confusion of decorum and bearing ..

none of this must make any sense to any of you whatsoever. i left and pounded the walls of the elevator, going "fuck fuck fuck" as loud as i could without being heard without someone entering and surprising me. none of this must make any sense to any of you.

and fuck me if it makes sense to me, either.

jesus christ, when will this all end. (oh, right - when i take it upon myself to end it. which should have happened today of my own accord and didn't, so now must lapse over another day as i wait to conclude this new chapter in drama, this old chapter in Obsession, as though it is a bad novel i have yet to finish ..)

oh fuck me. so unpoetic today.

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