058. I will lay down my bones, among the rocks and roots

Katatonia’s in the teapot, running up the hills of sugar in the cup and blood in the veins. There’s dilated crimson poison in the cheek of the puppet and the children who kiss it all die suddenly, with restless hearts. Earthquakes abound sea-shores that make waves of salt. There’ll be more salt in plates and animals will float on the water. Light-bulbs fall on the ground and spark under chairs. Children hanged their backs on these wooden platforms used as scenes, on which they dance and sing. Birds fly in cafes and people try to make them go away, but they wouldn’t fly out, they’d occasionally hit the windows, break the glasses. And then the tea would shiver in the teapot and the nostalgia would vanish along with the birds, that’ve been persuaded to leave the café. Although cafes get lonely when autumn strikes; they ask for mercy of lonesome sad faces to gather, each alone at one of the four windows, to breathe on the walls of wood and paint figures with warm fingers on cool surfaces. To whistle rhymes that don’t sound good. That don’t even fit. Autumns get so cold, always.

057. I hate you, sweet girl of Karma

Watching horror movies alone on a Friday night should be one of my extremely skeptic approaches on life, a landscape of what a typical drama class of personal data would start with, or just another file added to my record of: moments of self-embarrassment, when my alter-ego would jump out of his mental cavity and start running berserk? Well I dunnot know. Watching ‘Carrie’ definitely didn’t make me feel better, with this party of my high-school which – as usual – I’m not attending, all my friends being there, my boyfriend, my dog probably heard about it and is actually taking part… I feel miserable and feel like sharing ridiculous aspects of my living at this moment, on this blog, sounding as pathetic as I can get. I hate my FREAKIN’ status quo. There it goes. Fuck you. Dunno who, so please don’t take it too personal. No one in particular. But fuck you Karma. I hate your guts and I hope you get melted in an over full of sparkling vanilla. 4 minutes left of what a late-night-term would sound like – it’s something too ambiguous and dual to try to explain – actually prosaic and boring. 3 minutes left and I got nothing to say. And it’s so funny ’cause I was thinking about writing something extremely sentimental, allegoric and deep nonetheless… This doesn’t seem pretty fancy to me. 1 minute left and I’m starting to climb walls, asking myself questions, posing situations, figuring out what could’ve happened, Jesus, no one understands me, what am I doing here, I should’ve been out there, I need spies, I’m gonna get crazy, this is out of hand, I’m officially blind, I need music but some good music ’cause I’m sick of everything in my playlist, I lost my senses, I need water I’m thirsty like hell, neah I’m just bragging I’m going to bed. Impeding doom…freakin’ lights. I need New York – in Woody Allen’s Manhattan or in real life. I just do. Which means, whenever my desires become too concrete and actually feel like concrete underneath bare feet, that I’m gently heading towards an utmost-inner fastidious nervous breakdown of happiness and self-sufficiency. And yet I’m fine, but no, I’m fine, I’m perfect, cold and catatonic, la la la, a perfect circle, God I hate my e-mails. Always come up with a pop-up-typical-piece-of-shhh-sound, breaking and crushing the grounds of the perfect atmosphere, in which my speech was almost reaching its peak. It’s climax. It’s oh whatever. It’s there. It’s done. It hurts. I hate it, once again. Freakin’ lights, stabbing the apples of my eyes. Go away. I need some sleep.

056. The world dies tonight, Ergoline

Well you know, your milk and cookies don’t actually fit with the lead clouds. They are here yes, but don’t become impatient, sirens will play any minute now. There’s wind. And it doesn’t fit with your amber hair either. Or your eyes, one that’s green and one that’s black, looking at jars filled with sweets, malfunctioning everyone else’s smiles. You’ve always been malicious. Always laughed at tragedies and painted grins on your face when facing blood and corpses. You used to say butter-coloured butterflies would make the landscape more beautiful. And reckless. You were reckless, catching the poor creatures and venturing with green sacks of alkaline batteries, stabbing them in their spines. And they’d break their wings and muscles to carry them around and look like shiny ghosts caught on tapes. You liked them butter-coloured, so they’d fit the dead and their variations of translucent skin. And the scent of flesh breaking to pieces, skin turning to dust and bones cracking underneath the sun.  Gold lights vanished as you looked at them with your freaky eyes, all beautiful and immaculate. You and your phobias of light and puppets. They scared you. You hated them and they hated you back. Both the puppets and the light, and the gold and the chocolate. Why couldn’t you stand them?

You’d take the dead butterflies and stick them on your walls. With glue. You put bricks behind your windows and stood behind every word you said about everyone losing their minds. You and your synesthesia, you and your mental blindness, you and your awkwardness. You and your perfect mate, the Cheshire cat in black and black stripes, the most sinister of beings, laughing chaotically everytime you grinned and scratching blankets everytime you’d boil. What a terrible thing that no one ever saw it, and still heard it laugh and scratch, break its claws in giant balls of fur and cashmere. Yes, they’d all buy you cashmere, for they feared you and your pet, the perfect surrogate you found of your own. The perfect acronym for the only reality regarding you that everybody understood: psychosis. And all you wished for was the end of it, the end of it all, above all you would reign, you and your cat. And the world dies tonight. The buildings crash, the bridges collide, water swallows, skies touse, grounds pluck and hills uproot. Cloudburst and fire dancing in utopias. Well, you wanted it and we all surrendered. But it’ll get you too, Ergoline, my sweet skeleton girl. Am I the cat, or are you the burden?

055. Old hope, made of rope, that held you tight as the chair legs broke

Once there was a lonely tree. At night-time, it burns, suffering spontaneous combustions because of the heat it lasted and carried throughout the day. Mornings were chilly, cool and vanillated, with eyes half-closed and minds half-gone, with mouth filled with cigarettes and pieces of clothing in flowerish patterns, coloured necklaces and sun-open Tiamats, kind hells in vermillion nuances that bloom into the most beautiful baby creature of blue the sky ever hoped to capture and tightly hold between its fingers. Noons were like hot toast in shiny windows that’d been forgotten wide open, with rays of sunlight blooming like fluid honey. Like warm milk and chocolate for children, like dancing yellow flowers in amber heads. Nights were striking with fury of dark watercolours, varying from the deep orange of grass below late eight thirty p.m. and the astute ubiquous blue of empty skies filling with stars.

Well nothing happens with the lonely tree, apart from its bursting into fire at late hours, crying out for rain when dawn approaches. It lingers for rivers and beats of clear winds, rhythms of small birds hiding behind curtains of leafs. It cries when the branches are broken and the smoke flies
high, but nothing really matters as it turns back to its senses in the morning and recollects bits and pieces of golden dust. Sometimes, bees die on its leafs and it eats their honey and sweet bodies. And sometimes, the lonely tree hunts bees for the sweetness of their wings. But that doesn’t make him a killer. No. We all are killers. And so is he.

Portugal the Man – Lovers in love