I'm just trying to feed the baby birds - this only looks like bulimia.

Maybe if I feed them enough, one day their wings will be strong enough to carry them out of the birdnest. My birdnest. Birdnest brain, birdnest hair - I don't care.

I remember the day the eggs hatched in my skull.
Incessant chirping and squawking
Violent, noisy colour pervading all the blanks
The filled blanks as well as the empty
Violent, noisy, anti-lullabies
The insomniac, the bulimic, the fraud
It's the birds, the birds make me do this!

"Birds ate it," I wanted to tell them. "Birds ate my face."

The magpies caught the glint in my eyes
With their beady sight and hungry beaks
Who said diamonds last forever?


Sleeping Beauty doesn't even come close.

I can't remember how to sleep, I can't remember how to wake up.
All I remember is how to float in the ether of the distant memory of a dream...

Ethereal seclusion.
My hands are tied with ribbon woven from the wings of a moth - we frazzle in the ether eternally, as the moon sings us the lie of a lullaby.


All I've been retrieving from the well of words within me will now be being poured into pages instead of this blog - I may write some more fragments occasionally, but my novel is where most of my words will be going now. It's thirsty, and needs to be watered so it'll grow.


17 dead butterflies and a baby in the womb.

The butterflies awoke me early this morning - so early the world was still asleep under it's blanket of darkness, so early that I could still taste the party four hours ago. It tasted like heroin and unknown familiarity - qualia?
They flutter their diaphonous pages of wings insistently, demanding I awake my ears to the news they have been crafting for several months now.
The beating of their wings sends mellifluous, lyrical vibrations into my soul; they seem to sing about a caterpillar enclosed in his coffin of a chrysalis, who's just dying to meet me...
I swallow them back down so I can't hear their threats - the taste of thyme and rust slides down my throat, as I begin to digest the news: how shall I choose to interpret it?
Do I accept this cadaverous newcomer and welcome what fortune he may bring - or do I remove the foetal corpse from the chrysalis so that I may find shelter there?


This is why you should take your anxiety medication.

This morning I vomited 17 dead butterflies, fluttering in the spectral zombie fashion which is so popular nowadays.
But the sickness remains within me, I should have chosen to keep my collection in my pillowcase, instead of the hour glass which I've become. The ethereal, faerie-like creatures fall fatally through, piercing through the walls in revolt. I try to swallow them back down, vainly hold onto the glass to keep it together, but all that happens is it splinters into stars - embedding in my hands to create a beautiful crimson night sky in my palms.
I bequeath this crimson night to one I love and loathe.
I'll bathe you in the night, until my palms whiten and the makeshift stars lose their shine...

17 dead butterflies
Fighting through my neck
Entering the crimson sky
Fluttering plague unto the Wreck.

17 dead butterflies
Wings all painted dead
Once more in my heart reside
When the plague has all been shed.

17 dead butterflies
Presently interred within
And visible behind my eyes
Until the ending again begins...


Lolita and the Humbert Bird...

I didn't want them to, but they did.
My tectonic plates got excited, too excited, hit yours and now I'm not sure whose fault my epicentre is.
I should have forced them to remain placid, but now the crust's broken, the earth's dancing and I'm uprooting the homes of the ruby throated hummingbirds.
The branches entangle around my ruby throat in self-defence, and the rise and fall of the earthy waves show no mercy.
The birds are a beautiful illustration to this catasrophe; their mellifluous, lyrical songs providing the perfect soundtrack to disaster.
My ruby red throat plumes feathers, soft and weightless. My arms, by the multitudinous hands of the trees, bend to look like wings.
I might look like you now, but I'll never be able to sing like you.

Look out for me.
The silent ruby-throated hummingbird, flying solitary, gazing at the wreckage of her epicentre.
A red feather of blood dives into the debris.

I don't think I'll write anymore, because words don't mean anything now.


I don't think I can write anymore because there are no words, no possible combination of words and poorly strung sentences, to possibly explain anything now.