Stones and Visions and Crossroads



Behind my eyes and upon the tip of my tongue, there are fish fingers and half-empty bottles of vodka along with those little cakes with the soft centres in them. French Fancies, I think they’re called. Once dated a girl who liked being fed them during the act of intercourse. It was alright, I guess, but it was all about her, and quite often I’d go limp through boredom which would bring on many of our arguments. Don’t like arguing, so I’d often disappear and leave her alone with her tears and neurosis and drugs, and when I’d come back to her, she’d be high and low at the same time. When she’d fall asleep, I’d stroke her hair and fall in love with her but then when she woke we’d be enemies once more. Sometimes after a night of drinking, I’ll eat raw jelly and sit atop the hill that overlooks the town I live in trying to tell the difference between the past and the present. With rain on my face and ghosts in my heart, the pathways and roads speak to me in the same way that the trees do. There are subtle differences, but they know the truth I seek, and it’s them I listen to most. There are fry-ups and cups of tea and beer shits that touch me on a spiritual level. There are exotic energy drinks and the stress of picking out images from a wank bank that’s as cryptic as one of those Zodiac cyphers. Y’know, the ones that were never solved? In quiet contemplation, there’s love and loss and the image and feel of your body against mine, and then there are fantasies about the end of the universe. Will there be a big crunch, and subsequently another big bang? Or will it just keep expanding and die out? No more stars and no more life, just atoms and husks until everything dissolves like the memory of our kiss? Or any kiss, for that matter. As the rain comes down so heavy that it soaks me to the bone, I think about love, and I think about death, but neither impresses me. All there ever seems to be is this sense of emptiness that won’t quit. It’s like the memory of an old photograph. Or a scar on your wrist from back when you were too naive for your own good. Reminders of levels of existence that are no longer real, yet of which cling to us in place of the sense of attachment we so desperately seek. It reminds me of a hangover that won’t quit. And it reminds me of each tick of a clock that counts us down as if none of this had any meaning at all.

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

A Journal for Damned Lovers on

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