How it happened.

So when you kiss me, make it so that it hurts.
I cannot understand, take nothing but that of which was given to you.
She stared outwardly, a steel wall behind her eyes.
So he turned on the bar and questioned turntables and fables.
Smiling, she nodded. Her eyes shielding a glaze.
He imagined her burrowing, into his shoulder
A shield to the world beneath velvet and tassle.
Bedside lamp even cutting out direct light.
There was a fireplace in the room below, though all that was left of it,
behind it's wall,
Were embers still flickering, eyes watching warily.
London streets holding onto their lamp posts,
Each a candle waiting to be distinguished.
Highlighting each damp cobble beyond her gaze inward.
When the jungles of the world and the depths of the oceans were known only by the ones who died seeing them.

But there were dragons and witches, just waiting to be written of.
My own eyes seeking backward pasts
And leering in all the darkest crevices of the city.
I waited in doorways and watched the regulars pass
Til morning arrived and the sunlight attempt to bleach my retina.
It won't last forever,
but it shall only evolve.
Toasted to long marble tables, adorned in gold tupper
And tassles, like the ones of the bed you hid me in.

I think i realised, a-top the palm tree.
That gripping would only ever result in sliding.
Sweat, tire and tears of desperation.
So i mightn't see the sea for the endless length that it is,
However, to fall, only ever, will take me right into what i glance.
A salt wave may push over my eyes,
remove the glaze harshly.
I saw green waves rumbling, and the world. The sky branching endlessly as ever.
But when submerged.
A world below, that even though i saw the sand lying unevenly,
carried on beneath just as did the sky.
My body, like an arrow, cut through the ocean, the granules growing closer,
Until they filled my eyes, until they clogged up my nostrils,
Until my own shoulders would no longer move
As the essence i once used, to make the castles for the dragons i'd dreamt of as a child
Devoured me and took me in as i had wished,
At one point i think i may have stopped.
But the fresh feel of my toes beneath now, wriggling and scathing,
A worm through mud, i knew i would find an ant's nest,
I must keep going.
No longer could i see, with eyes still open, the night time air was probably easier, two layers above
But a treasure chest, I'm sure, led some where below.


I died that night.

Running a-mock and turning each table,
I recalled a turn of events beside a snooker one.
It was dull green, though not as dull as the (in memory) windowless light that coated it.
I circled the table, though not for a shot,
and claimed the tables to have been turned on their head.
And i realised now. (I'm aware)
That i cannot stay on track of losing track.
Structure seems to achingly scrape at my fingertips, beneath keys or around pens.
Though the mind controlling them fears anything so much as
Being able to write in stanzas.
Or even. In sentences. Alot of the time.
Though i like some thing wonderfully outrageous.

I put my own skin against a test that needed nothing more than a pen, and a potractor.
My face feeling the temprature-less feel you can only get from an exam paper.
The hall run a-mock this time only with the sounds of pens scratching paper.
Ink injecting a tree, sap and honey i used to lick as a child.
Running out into the misty summer sunshine, into the clear shade beneath the tree on the left of the path before my house.
Seeing the ooze, remembering that trees may bleed too,
sliding my finger down it, some times frozen, and tasting whatever this fantastic new substance was.
No substance for that entirely could have ended up sexual.
A tree and myself.

I've honestly cleaned this up, from what is going on in my head.

They'll use it against me one day,

I'll be leant awkwardly against a white wall, on a silver chair, with black tips stopping the legs scraping the grey, dotted floors. The table before me may once have been seen as 'dull egg shell' coloured. Which is misleading, i always thought. The typical egg colour is that of skin, mostly. Lighter skin. Freckled skin.
Egg shell in the aisle, is actually a dull blue. Doused still in freckles, usually. Perhaps there was a minor mention of a duck. Still, dull blue freckled skin could still relate to the previous egg. Flesh gone off.
Any way, the man (or woman with her hair tightly pulled back into a bun, scraped across her head so that i figure without the black parts, the chair may indeed scratch the floor so that it looks like her scalp) will tell me 'Wipe the slate clean, start over'
Any I'll nod. Face against the cold wall, I'll nod.
Though inside i know, i listen, i picture a chopping board in a stupidly hygienic kitchen. I picture a wonderfully clean sponge covered in bubbles and fairy liquid, slopping away the scum and filth that covers the board. And i see it glint, shine in some unseen, unnatural light.
But i know. There are digs. Dips and slices in the chopping board, from old knives and cutlery. Accidental dents. All harbouring traces of scum. Disgusting bits of germs that couldn't have been caught and removed when 'wiping the slate clean'. They fester, lightly, and unseen.
So his/her words ride across this slate happily, like a small space ship over the surface of the futuristic landscape.
Work here is done and she's alright, release her, get her a job and get her in some flat.

My own eyes open now to the sap falling from lips of pyschatrists. My eyes blank and flat, believing and open to suggestion. I run my finger, mentally, across their oozing lips and take a commemorative lick of my finger.