Raz
Bluelighter
bleary eyes and too much caffeine -
i'm tired and wired, but not wired enough - or not wired to the right frequency - not attuned to the right sounds in my head to let them emerge in the form they're meant to take -
i remember a time spent counting soap bubbles and counting the windowframes marked out in soap bubbles and mesmerised by the quickening dance of oil on water on air, thinking of the god that lives next to cleanliness - his thousand eyes watching us naked and pissing and fucking and scraping the dead flakes of skin from our frames every single day - less often for some -
wondering if our dirty forefathers were right in the midst of all their disease to wander caked in filth with shit drying in the hairs of their arses and their breath fetid with meat not quite digested and teeth only halfway there - cleanliness is next to godliness after all, but nobody ever said whose god it was -
i feel like a smoke but i don't smoke - it just fits the image of a writer who won't write, a sleeper who won't sleep - sometimes selfdestruction is more subtle than the flash of a razor or the emptying of a bottle - sometimes selfdestruction is just how you live and there's nothing particularly emo about it - nothing particularly shocking -
nothing is shocking except the audacity of the cliche rearing its ugly head again - it can be counted on like clockwork - like the sun rising to make the dawn - like maggots crawling out of death -
it's not particularly drastic - it's not particularly inspiring - sometimes it just is -
- life in the night.
i'm tired and wired, but not wired enough - or not wired to the right frequency - not attuned to the right sounds in my head to let them emerge in the form they're meant to take -
i remember a time spent counting soap bubbles and counting the windowframes marked out in soap bubbles and mesmerised by the quickening dance of oil on water on air, thinking of the god that lives next to cleanliness - his thousand eyes watching us naked and pissing and fucking and scraping the dead flakes of skin from our frames every single day - less often for some -
wondering if our dirty forefathers were right in the midst of all their disease to wander caked in filth with shit drying in the hairs of their arses and their breath fetid with meat not quite digested and teeth only halfway there - cleanliness is next to godliness after all, but nobody ever said whose god it was -
i feel like a smoke but i don't smoke - it just fits the image of a writer who won't write, a sleeper who won't sleep - sometimes selfdestruction is more subtle than the flash of a razor or the emptying of a bottle - sometimes selfdestruction is just how you live and there's nothing particularly emo about it - nothing particularly shocking -
nothing is shocking except the audacity of the cliche rearing its ugly head again - it can be counted on like clockwork - like the sun rising to make the dawn - like maggots crawling out of death -
it's not particularly drastic - it's not particularly inspiring - sometimes it just is -
- life in the night.
