Self-Portrait

Thursday

Flotsam and jetsam.

I need to bleed these pictures out from my fingertips.
I need to replace my blood with something more satisfying, less itchy.

If I don't bleed them out here onto these keys, then the suppressed ghosts will fight for my attention, they'll consume me in their transparent, acidic stomachs.

The ghost of a jellyfish.
Haunts, taunts, flaunts the freedom all over me, inside me, mocking me with it's delicious, salty, tempting sight.

I close my eyes and open my mouth to the bipeds, searching for something, someone, anything else to distract me from the hungry ghosts.

And who the fuck are YOU, to call this psychosis? And who am I to fight it, to fight anything. Why fight when you can sink, why float?

The flotsam of her bones sleeping on the shore. The seaweed tentacles staining the border between our world and their's. Mine?
Welcoming, foreboding, threatening, loving? What logic is this?

Eviscerating the cage of my chest, I reach in and remove the bloody mess of a heart, to throw overboard, lighten the load of our cargo.

It's the only way to survive the storm.

But why survive?

And why not?

"It was in a foreign hotel's bathtub
I baptized myself in change
And one by one I drowned all of the people I had been
I emerged to find the parallels were fewer
I was cleansed
I looked in the mirror
And someone new was there
But, I was as helpless as a chess piece
when I was lifted up by someone's hand
And delivered from the corner
my enemies had got me in
But in all of my salvation
I still felt imprisoned inside that holding cell
that is myself."

Wednesday

Today.

Whizz whizz, bang bang.
Don't forget to clean your gums, your guns.
You tried to feed yourself a cheap imitation of happiness, and what did you go and do?
You overdosed. You alienated yourself even further.
Your eyes started to melt as your body shook, shook, shook, and it was dancing without you.
Your lips crusted over and fell off. You tried to piece them back together and speak, speak, speak, but what do words say? They say what we want them to say, what we choose to understand. Do words have their own passions, emotions, fears, loves, insecurities? Does "rabbit" love "formaldehyde"? Does it worry that it's inadequate? Does it have a gender, an agenda?

Do you, really?
What does it mean?

All your suppressed curiosities come leaking throuh, gushing forth, as the poor beavers stand by, watching the wasted destruction of all their efforts. I made my own dam once, out of toothpicks and old newspapers, and it was so ugly it repelled the flow of the river, and it headed to the sea in a different direction... I begged the river to carry me with it, to the mouth of the hungry sea, but I didn't have the money to go... So I just lie here on the river bank, waiting to sneak up on the current. You can't fool the water. Just like how you can't deceive the fire. The elements are above us. Do elements have emotions? Are they emotions, or merely symbols?

The Queen of Cups hands me a goblet of river water, and employs me as her servant girl.
I pin a number to my identity - piercing it, draining it, replacing it - and get to work.
Because they have the riches; their gold elevates them so far above the rest of us pathetic creatures. They deserve to order us around. We're not the same, are we?

But we are.

And. You do it too. The monkeys. You. The monkeys.

You're so hopeless.

I give up on you.

The thought of you poisons me to the point of nausea. I wish I could purge you, all of you, you disgust me, like the food I love and hate, I have to be rid of you so I can be clean.
Too much dirt, too many germs. Keep your debauchery to yourself.

And who am I to criticise? What right have I to judge?
I'm one of you, but I don't want to be. I want to paint myself differently, and burn the model. Dorian Gray style. Burn my skin, and sink into the 2nd dimension.

I refuse...

To stay...
I want my fucking tentacle back! I despise these legs, these arms, everything human here... I have to go. I'm sorry, but it needs to be done. Good bye. xxx

Sunday

Don't call the coast guard!


I'm coated in all this pretty dirt.
Dirt and glitter, filthy shimmers all over me.
Clods of dirt clogging up my veins, it's been a while since the dam fell down...
I didn't run out of words but they ran out of me, so we ran away, and there was no blood left to control us with.
I went for a nap in the ashes and hoped to wake up as a beautiful phoenix, but maybe my ugliness will transcend to the peak of beauty, I'll be so, so filthy and dirt encrusted that you won't be able to see me at all through the layers of grime. And. Then. I'll be beautiful, won't I?
Someone stubbed a cigarette out on me while I was sleeping, and I thought the flames meant I had my wings and the phoenix would fly away. But no, I was just camouflaged. I used to burn so brilliantly, but the fire died out. We tried pouring alcohol on it to revive it, but there's nothing to burn after that. So I threw some old photographs, stories, poems, records into the dying fire. Your face burned away, but I could still see it forming in the smoke, out of the smoke, going into my lungs, and now you're there forever, with all the tar and dirt inside my organs... Glistening.
Smoked humans for dinner.
Mmm.
I'm vegetarian, but I'll eat my young.
And I really don't know, all the knowledge and enlightenment was wasted on me.
Then the tsunami quenched the last of the embers, and blooms of jellyfish enclosed their tendril tentacles around us. I was safe. And that's where I want to be forever.

Monday

Nonsense from the hospital bed.

It's been a while... I just thought I'd share with you some words from the hospital bed.

Glowworm

Beautiful beetle, did you mean to deceive?
Or is it our fault for the thoughts we conceived?
Beauty is only as we allow it to be
And only appears when we choose to see

But we have not your compound eyes,
Just retinas dumbly repelled from the skies.
Maybe we envy for this larval skin
And our hopeless inability to emerge from within

Maybe it's for your lunar beam
Because miracles of nature are here unseen...
You are blameless for your gorgeous glow
You give and you take, and you reap as you sow

Mankind could learn from the lessons you teach
But our arrogant forms themselves would preach
And in the night when we come around
And our artificial azure intrudes your ground

And bedazzles your beauty in destructive contempt
Remember we lack the beauty you've spent
Shameless as we leave your fresh cadavers:
Glowing faintly, metamorphosed martyrs

In my heart you will always glow
And my mind was open to the secrets you know.
At least now your name corresponds your place
The Earth is used to dying stars from space...

As your life glows away from your brand new skin,
I wish you'd have taught me how to emerge from within.

_____________________________________________

Constellations of Riddles
Burning in Verse and the Universe

Tonight the moon wears her Cheshire Cat face
Grinning at the lycanthropes' groans
They crawl beneath her encrusted space
Bathing in the purity she emanates alone.

The nymphalid spreads cerulean wings
With flutters chiming into the chorus.
Sinister, sincere, or some other thing?
Is Lunar's smile truly beaming for us?

Borrowed light on this rock in the sky
Does she charm, bribe, or blackmail the sun?
If one night she decides not to shine
The ink will be staining all but one.

The stars spell out ridiculous riddles
By the bid of the Cheshire moon,
And with conjectures men have fiddled
But they won't be solving them soon.

_____________________________________________

Inky papers of sympathy,
Like wasps a'buzzing, chewing trees
All I see, cheap imitations of nature
You're just the way the surgeons made ya'.

_____________________________________________

A Prayer for the Prey

As I set forth to sail on the watercolour sky
And feel the world fall beneath my wings
I hardly supposed one as insignificant as I
Would be entangled in the collector's strings.

My patterns are not the most pleasing to the eye
But that was no matter to him.
To the flowers and sky, I bid good bye,
Preparing for the worst of the cataclysm.

From the net to the jar, transferred was I
Despite my failed methods of escape;
Removed again, he pierced my owl eyes
In order to scrutinize their shape.

I strained to see the walls aligned
With my predecessors sharing a tomb:
Stolen from the sky, beatific butterflies
Signaling to me my doom.

Now perfumed with formaldehyde
In the butterfly collector's lair,
All the world we are denied
Yet spectres live on to scare.

_____________________________________________

Congealed rubies around my wrists,
The jewels which feed me: unwanted gifts.

_____________________________________________

Narwhal, Ad Infinitum

Equine monstrum of the waters
With horns calling to your daughters

Such a threat to primal man
Who drove the creatures off the land

The unicorn swimming within the sea
The predator calling out to me

Because immortality never dies
The rapist waits beneath the tides.

_____________________________________________

A Song of Solitude

Scratching down the days on the walls of my cell
Aligned with the scratches on the walls of my skin
Strangers scratching pens to wish me well
Doctors scratch their heads and scorn the djinn
They feign to help and pretend to listen.

There's one week spent and three to spare
To fix this bug which was never mine.
My mood corresponds to the blue of my hair,
As I apply my maquillage for the pantomime.
Was it a worm or nymphalid butterfly?

Jack had some beans which never grew,
As Cinderella slumbered atop the pea;
I could sure do with a magic bean or two,
But what my tongue craves most is sweet liberty-
For the butterfly collector to set me free.

It would taste like kisses, smiles, vodka and coke,
And reckless decadence with Mickey Finn.
"I wish I'd gone to Toy Town," I choke,
As my eyes embrace that lonely djinn,
As I scratch away at my larval skin.

With laughter lost, words are all I own
So with them I build my vital escape:
An empire I rule, yet I'm here alone
Because it's only myself in these fictional walls I've shaped
It's only myself in these fictional walls I've shaped.

Sunday

Misnomer.

This picture contains no hearts, brains or lungs.
Covering oneself in hosiery is an ideal suit of armour.
Good luck.

Thursday

Waking.

Somnambulation in smoky circles
SNAP OUT OF IT!
It's a fantasy, a phantasy, a phantom came to me in my sleep...
He walked right through my front door without knocking
INTRUDER
Intruding my retinas, lifting the curtains from my myopia
In a breath he bid me to walk through
And I refused
And
THIS IS IT
And it's so dazzling
Beauty in macabre waves
Washing over me as oxygen speeds through my veins
The bends
And
It's all gone...
The bends
And now there's just nowhere left for me.

I'm so sorry.

Wednesday

No metaphors were harmed in the making of this poem.

Words spilling across the page
Veil drifting o’er my head
Insects dance, I disengage
Statue girl, she stole my bed.

Rain descends from the ceiling
Not outside with the orchestra
Hallucinations devoid of feeling
My beloved lachrymator…

Excuse me, it's raw.

Like the title says, no metaphors were harmed and no metaphors were used at all (except that one).

Because this is really what I've been seeing. My eyes are open, and the world shows me this. Whether it's my world or theirs, it's what's happening. And it scares me. It's scary when the world is singing and playing an orchestra to you, when words dance and turn into insects having a party, when it rains in your room and there's a live statue in your bed.
Not the first time I've hallucinated, and doubtfully the last.

At least this time I got to stay in this world... Like it's such a great place to be, huh?

What is the world trying to show me?
What does it want?

Sunday

You don't fit me anymore.

I gave my familiar back to the devil... Or did he give me back to him?

If he did, Lucifer's been treating me pretty well here in these flames.

He's taught me the latest modern techniques in magick, we've been dabbling in all these new herbs and powders... Explosions and elation, torturous tension gone...

And I am gone from the world, from your world.
I am gone from your hauntings, I have evaporated into the flaming clouds... To rain down upon you with my burning lips and fiery words.
Up here, I'm the lightning in fireworks, partying with Thor and his hammer.

You never gave me the chance to shine like Lucifer does - or provide me with the illusion of thus, like he.

You see, that old story about Hell beneath the Earth's crust - that's all a lie, a fairytale.
Hell is the sun, where I transcend with hungry wings.
Heaven is that safe trap beneath the bland Earth. You want to go to Heaven? Carry on digging that 6 foot hole for yourself, that's where Heaven is.
Meanwhile, I'm a firework dancing in the sun.
Those kids in Fatima got it all wrong! It wasn't the Virgin Mary, those convoluting colours were me from the future.
You have to listen to me, please: the future is NOW, and you're missing it!

My message in a bottle for you sailors of the land, to the birds who used to live in my hair.
The ruby throated hummingbirds deciphered and understood, they soared and exploded into stars of sharded glass - life is best above the clouds.

Ask them for tips and directions.
I'll save you a seat above the sky...

And you have to understand, I needed to take my clothes off to dive above the air. I needed to take and your too-short-sleeves off. Pure and naked atop the elements.
Climb a mountain and I'll meet you at the top, half way, to see how well you fit then.

You can ask the birds for directions.

Friday

A sincere apology to no one in particular.


Words, I'm sorry for neglecting you.
I'm sorry for not feeding you.
All victuals went towards the birds, you know how greedy they can be...
Selfish birds. Selfish me.

The pages of the rose are all withered and crumpled. My resurrection spell is lost, she'll stay dead just to spite me.
Selfish rose.

I'll endow my all to you. It's not very much, certainly not enough, but it's all I have.
Well, not anymore.
Selfish you. Selfish me.

The birds can starve for all I care. I'd rather feed you than the insatiable parasites atop my skull.
As their premature forms wither, like the rose I left there, I'll feed you their feathery skeletons.
Your feathery skeletons.
Selfish feathers. Selfish skeletons.

Because I don't want their cadaverous lullabies anymore. They shut my ears to the world around me. I desire to grip my senses onto something, someone, anything tangible, real. I'm tired of waving my branches in the wind of symbols, and shedding my leaves for a metaphorical Autumn.
Long ago their true mother mistook me for a wood nymph. Not their fault, the forest framed me.
Selfish forest. Selfish nymphs.

So, I adopted them out of loneliness.
How is it this always ends up so "me me me"?
I'm tired of that, I don't want it to be that way anymore.
Selfish me-me-me, I-I-I.

Here's to you. No more wasted metaphors or banal symbols. No more superficial similies. No more artificial allegories.
Just you.
From now on it'll be you-you-you, because Selfish Me has exhausted and expended herself.
Just you.
Who ever you may be...


Good bye.