Reading Between the Lies

I am sitting here at 9:33pm where small lamp is my eyes,
I am falling behind with many things – writing, sleep, and people –
The deep depressing rooms lived with me since 1991, each death
Built in mechanically. What ghost does is what ghost sees.
I am being eaten alive by fleas.

A hair on the paper makes a shadow of me –
I am forcibly rubbing my skin for clarity: my arm, my neck,
Regret silences me because the horror of memories;
Because Christina screams out to me!
Because now I’m thinking of three people:
Man stalks another man
Man stalks woman...
Trapped now in these terrible impact talks,

I make impacts – they are dangerous paradise.
It turns to 9:54pm; the hot buzz of the halogen warms the room,
My feet are bare and veins appear in my hands from heat.
The werewolf is angry and says ‘why are you such a stranger?’
The banana is so laid back;

I am the city, I am all around,
Gotta see this city to the end,
Stuck in job till Doomsday – back in work on Monday –
Beard ten-feet long and mounting pressure of waiting still.

Dylan Moran and Basho, gotta see it,
Bout 2:30-ish, if that’s alright?
She’s busy all morning, free in the afternoon,
Comes down with glandular fever, and we’re all doomed.

“TV is shit! I wish I
Ws gettin pssed.”



I got the title from the last piece of notes I had so just threw it in as the title. I don't like it, it doesn't make sense as the title.

[This following one is the same poem with translations to some of the words. Languages used are French, Indonesian, Polish, Dutch, German, and Portuguese. It was just an experiment to see what the words would sound like:


I am sitting here at 9:33pm where small lamp is my oko,
I am falling de balakang with many things – writing, sleep, and people –
The dalam depressing kamar lived with me since 1991, each death
Built in mechanically. Ghost, co nie jest tym, co widzi duchy.
I am being eaten alive by fleas.

Un cheveux on the paper makes a shadow of me –
I am forcibly rubbing my skin for clarity: my arm, my neck,
Zal silences me because the horror of memories;
Because Christina screams out to me!
Because now I’m thinking of three people:
Mannen stalks annen mann
mann stalks kvinne...
Trapped now in these terrible impact talks,

I make impacts – they are gefahrliche paradise.
It turns to 9:54pm; the hot buzz of the halogen warms the room,
My feet are bare and veins appear in my hands from heat.
The werewolf is angry and says ‘why are you such a stranger?’
The banana is so laid back;

I am the city, I am calego,
Gotta see this city to the end,
Stuck in job till Doomsday – back in work on Monday –
Beard ten-feet long and mounting pressure of waiting still.

Dylan Moran and Basho, tenho que ve-lo,
Bout 2:30-ish, if that’s alright?
She’s busy all morgen, free in the afternoon,
Comes down with glandular fever, and we’re all doomed.

“TV is shit! I wish I
Ws gettin pssed.”

Sooner I will come back
And irritate who I am
Some successful demon,
Individual afternoons empty rooms dim romantic light
Tell your sister
Its pointless trying
Tell your brother
I’m not even trying;
Lying down forever
And your spine fastens to the ground;
Lying in bed is torture
And these gorgeous horror evenings
Staring out the magazine window
Portraying a groovy book of sexy
Morose celebrity prostitutes
That hardly practise their sayings like:
Good game, that,
And me, practically born in a tunnel
Because evry place I’ve been
I’ve seen not even everything
But something lying down forever,
Evry polluted morning smells of fireworks a terrible aroma
Evry polluted woman giving me the eye
The body the look the practise turn around
And get –

Practically that tunnel
And strain and strain,
You see, no one dies until someone dies
And then all you get is the phone ringing
Wailing bawling like a baby;
And I sat down and wondered about this strain
Upon my perfect/imperfect vision –
‘Cause colours seem to change,
The high street gets taller like New York
And I close all the blinds in the house
And write these things to you
So you know that there’s been a death in the family.

The Only Snow in the North