Brainstorm

I watched my wrists today,
though i saw nothing 'pulsate' per say,
i traced the purple lines tinged red.
I wondered if they'd shy deeper beneath my skin if I touched them.
I gazed over each break into another series.
They looked and look like two trees, standing quietly still in the dusk.
My skin acting as an olive coloured sky, near a field or small wood.
I almost saw the old fence running along side them.

But could, and only for today, my skin be the ocean.
Such an odd coloured ocean, as my veins ride just below waters surface
Like dolphins beside the boat that is my hand.
Wondering how most references turn to the sea,
I trace as these trees trail deeper, the roots finding water.
Visible partially to the surface, my veins then delve suddenly into the depths of my body,
And i can no longer see them as they fade.
Moisturizer tainting my hands, identifying each crack and line
with harsh white contrast.
I couldn't count and my hand twitched nervously,
as i do, when i am being watched so closely.
My body is just like me.
Writing like a five year old but my body is just like me.
Reacts as i do.
Gets nervous and quivers.

pale flat.

Should some one try to casually brisk through my door
I should be stood behind it.
Not callously
But quite sincere, and thinking you should be back with her.
Quite realistically i pondered this, funnily enough with my back to the door.
And remembered just how cagey she was, and how heartless disapearing made you seem.
I kept leaving words around the door frame
and leaking them under the door itself, like a spare key.
My ideas used to be better than this, as you shan't ever pop in for a drink.
When your three trains and a coach away and I'm in my friends fourth storey flat,
you'd think, gosh we could just meet by chance ?
But it's entirely sour to comprehend.

My arms turned, outstretched to the sound,
wofting softly from the round speaker in the corner,
My head lolled back and my eyes almost closed
My teeth exposed
and the rest of the city slept.
The material thinly draped around me followed my arms airily
as i turnt.
The soft gurglings of the baby in the room across the hall, whenever the change between songs left me lost.
I'll admit i ended up on the floor.

For a few seconds there my neck stretched to the sky.
Tense but at home, and it was always clean.
The carpet so pale, and the walls all so plain.
But to shut myself away, made serene in complications.
Such contrast to the smoke leaked streets,
where the buses trumbled by
and the old people ran, and the kids dressed so bright,
and the rubbish strewn on pavements
made the grease from the chippy ever so tang,
the jagged parts of the pavements,
and the clanging of the change in traffic from car to people for the roads.
Day light hurt my eyes out there
So i led back on the floor
of the pale flat.

I'd get on the coach tomorrow.
Had i not a day to earn the money i don't have coming along.
I didn't speak to any one other than her for around 36 hours, so come the second 1am my words withered around my lips, never falling.
Unfortunately not being so wound up in my head
Is aiding me to leave the myths behind.
I got up from the chair, and led upon the floor.
The ceiling lit from the left hand side of the pale room as usual,
seagulls circling the night outside.
One star, in a clearing. Cloudless, was the sky.
I thought i saw a dash or two. And completely forgot about the rain in the day.

Crept in through the bus window,
as if treading through cold waves.
The sun wiping over the prominent memory of the seaside,
giving it a hazed reflection in a car window.
The ocean shon grey-green,
and delved into every orifice of the lucky pebbles.



I keep thinking what might happen if I saw your face at my door,
Smiling nervously in the sunshine.
Knowing that night might only bring comfortably dark conversation,
over by the park and where the stars hid behind light pollution.


How long may i spend writing one thing to them?
Irony held out ten fold.
All the train stations were far too recogniseable,
and i believe they began to get used to my bones on the platform.

Thinking freely into music filled ears,
stepping in a rythm those around me could clearly see.
Diamond dogs and a zebra print suitcase.
Influenced beyond the seaside, down by the boats.



My life then played out like lights at night,
and each day time step was taken like one in the dark,
suggestively glancing for that tree stump in the alley,
letting you lead, of course not by choice.


I was reminded of Whitam, yet another station.

The dull silence only corrupted by the constant flicking of plastic,

of the digital clock counting seconds on the platform.

My mind ached again in irony and footsteps came to a slow halt beside me.

For once i couldn't remember where i was going, as I declined a man a lighter,

And avoided small talk.

I can't stand seeing her lie there.

Oh gosh, nothing's meaning any thing.
Here, round again. Circles in the clubs again.
Turning on my feet once more,
to songs I've never heard before.
And still wishing for a mike and something painful.
To enter a room and make you want to cry.
So sliding hands did nothing any more.
A year and a half and an over the mark.
Lips much too bitter and grips not so tight.


How could I not? When there's a cliche attached to every thing said.
Coming third was never best.
But i clung to the number, claiming it's luck,
Until i rolled over, thirtieth.

Just like clinging to rails on the underground,
And the turn rolls the heads of every drone onboard to Victoria.
Each end of each Metro page wilting like a rose dying fast,
Each eye widening as a book leans away from them.
The black outside.
Underside.

Taking my own pen to other people's paper seemed a way to put it out.
Feeling as though every thing should be written,
as not to forget any details in future.
But what am i saving them for exactly ?
No one really wants to hear them,
just to respond with their own opinion.



~

I slept in my old room last night.

Easily, done just as.
Walking along side tarmac and the odd growth.
My feet ache in broken shoes and i can't seem to see an end to the ocean.
Perhaps the sun is setting a glare into my eye,
or perhaps the earth really does bend,
and beyond what i see is merely water collapsing over the edge.
There's a rythmatic collapture to it, though.
Disgustingly sweet vocals etched into a microphone.
I sat up all night wondering just how those who served me there,
would never know my name.
Outrage and catastrophic emotions were the latter today,
He kept asking if i could hear him.
Moving oceans, water folding, took about preoccupying my attention.
Though my eyes constantly altered direction.

~
Beneath such darkness, the moon acting as a sensor light within a long hall.
Much like the one in the corridors of Lauren's flat,
flickering to attention at the remotest sign of your careful tread in the dark.
Desperately trying to aid your vision, but lacking the means of motivation.

Light coming and going so, it appears you are a character in a flip book comic.
Or perhaps this was only emulated in the outside world, due to the trees i passed beneath.

Words rolled across the foam, on the edge of the waves,
I heard nothing but mumbling,
And nothing convinced me to lean closer.

Toned.

Grant me, if you will,
The ability to forget, and then to re-live.
And the possible indication of where i went wrong the first time.
Of course, i am not asking you to go back.
What a waste and regain of time that would be.
All I'm saying is, my night was sweeter knowing that the next day,
I was to visit the seaside I'd never before seen.
Now i have.

~

Sometimes passion holds me.
Occasionally gripping at my arms and cupping the flesh,
All the while maintaining it's trade.
Brushes in my hands - pens, technology and hefty plastic expenses.
-
Passion is;
My carriage now sits empty, par the man two windows thick, through,
And so my voices carries out from travelled throat,
and trails softly around the bars, eightie's designed seating and mortgage adverts.
It's barely even a whisper. And it's slightly out of tune.
But all the while this circle line train plummets deeper,
It's route set and myself stuck.
It shakes my being comfortably, uncontrollably
And I watch the curve in machinery.
It's destination set, I wait upon an exit.
But that part before doors slide,
Possibly is felt when passion drives.

Narrow, aimless, blind but sure of an arrival.




~
Daylight showed me Essex was at my feet,
My suitcase merely grumbled along behind me in an adolescent way.
The train doors scraped some sort of farewell, and in my mind only did the train whistle aprovingly as it steamed away.
For a moment my hair was permed and a netted hat sat slanted upon it.
But sepia failed to make it's appearance today,
and so a chav bustled by me hump-ily, clashing music riding within his palm.
'I'm not a fan of lazy days'
She once said.
And half an hour later boarded a train so similar.
His voice played out a blur as she sat alone on the platform.
There was no breeze disguising traffic,
But the hum sat in the air around her had his tone to it.
It wound itself into her throat,
and caused her the deepest breath she'd taken that day.

Her eyes turned inwards,
but there was no deffinate way of seeing his face.
The sun then peered out from behind the wispy clouds,
it's warmth rolled over her as did her eyes roll outward.
They ached in protest to the newly found brightness,
and squinted accordingly.
A familiar tingle hit her throat,
And the sounds of live piano muscled it's way into the back of her mind somewhere.
She enjoyed it for no longer than 30 seconds,
And then, her throat and eyes dry, she left.

Empty cities.

I do not remember how i got here.
Those older and before me assured me it was something memorable,
full of song and blank, pale rooms of familiar smiles.
But i sat on the end of the bed and heaved,
clutching at my hair in tangles about my fingers.
Purposefully granting you satisfaction you were yet to know.

My feet turnt sideways to the ground, cupping the air between them wistfully.
Your words brought air to my back, tracing the etching of my spine beneath my skin.

-

There were people every where tonight,
I granted my breathing had been letting words out along with it,
The smaller of them almost disapearing before audible even to myself.
'There are people everywhere tonight, the leaves walk the streets in scrapes,
scattering along to the same direction, running past my feet and down the hill.
How had i never noticed them previously?
Do the leaves not walk along side humans by day?
Two seagulls stood amongst some of those crossing the road. '

'I see, i see a man. He stands amongst the flowers gathered in plastic wrappings,
and the laminated newspaper articles, all wrapped around the lampost.
Words in chalk and pen scrawled the floors, i knew that much,
But from here i could not read them.
The man stood, as though embracing the lamp post.
As far as i was, i could see it was him. He read, I'm sure.
For on stepping closer, my breath achily refusing to release any more words,
i saw he was in fact holding a girl in his arms.
The only thing seperating them, the gap between life and unconscious.
I'm sure her eyes ached as much somewhere else.
Across the road i walked now.
All that stood was, factually, a T-shirt, tied with black tape along with the collection of coloured wrappings and wilting petals.


Losing.

Everywhere i looked on these silent roads i saw a person.
In the lights, in the bricks, within gates and stepping down empty alleys.
The drone of cars running along the road beneath the bridge i walked even formed the sound of a room full of people.
Talking so as that their voices might all mingle into one monotone hum.
Unidentifiable.
I wondered if i'd ever be as such.