hexvexx unlocked diary

the great contrast between everything and nothing:

lamppost lights reflect rushing streams

like mountains made of concrete

where the grass is wet and green

and mushroom fields replace the wheat

monster house:

knock and your own voice will echo

i drew a kind face on the front door

an untitled work under art deco tiles

enter but do not tell what you found

unknown masters govern these halls

a long neck and pale face, 6ft tall,

painting potions onto four bare walls

They move us closer toward

a space we can call our own

my table is adorned

with sixteen limbs on my tailbone

i float to the feeling

where melodies repeat and morph

above the fumes, on the ceiling

beneath the tiles we unearthed

dirty fingernails and nothing else

Im last to know that Ive been stealing

rhymes from shadows I observe

Im real when I thirst for

the bodies of dead poets

under stained oak floorboards

ouch! :

on my way, I cracked my jaw on the curb

to see if it would hurt

I like to play, to feel my heart reverb

But not to disturb the birds

I want them to feel okay,

to enjoy their wee day

twenty-three (how Im feeling now):

believe we can be who we want to be

understand the silence

over the crunch of the leaves

I’m not sure where you’ll find us

between you and me,

foggy English countrysides

breed a feeling I see

so readily, so clearly.

i liked that it was sharp

hefty profits from

heavy metals that i guard

I polish them,

it melts my tin heart,

Though I don't condemn

bridges they tore apart

I do regret

that they ruined your polo shirt

you who has

perfected the balancing act

Warmed by powdery leaves

nesting in nettled oak trees

to slip and snap a spine

happens all the time

to a farmers first born

a pawn with moves to defend

wet hands strike him down dead

roosters pluck from the wings of hens

to plug their piss from the drain

6th sept 2025. in the sky, swimming in the wrong sea, etc.

Today, I went fishing in the North Sea
Cold visions in bones, I only hunt alone 
To return them, I enter the salty foam
I adapt, I'm leather, my hair is wet only
God knows if down here, I'll be alone
If rocks bruise my head, tell me, what could unfold
Go lie down, i'll take it, let crashes rehome me
and carve symbols about the stories untold

1st sept 2025. diary entry.

I have this creature lodged beneath the surface of my skin. It calls me to peel back the layers and inspect it every so often. It doesn’t all have to be so evil, I tell it, but my secret friend is mean and he bites. So, every so often, I burn holes in my skin to release the smoke from my bones. My skeleton is finite like coal, the dark ash burns my eyes and stains the skin of those I touch. I am commanded to lay down, bathe in my linen sheets, protect others from the boils. A weary body can only handle so much, so my mind encased in resin. In times like these, glossy eyes and cold extremities greet those who observe my rotten flesh. It’s hard to not rely on habits like these, I remember when I was a kid, in the worst moments, I would disappear into myself. The TV would whizz miles and miles and miles away while I lay down, closed my eyes, and placed my consciousness in my eardrums. Now, when I walk, my feet often miss the floor, and I hear things at a slight delay.

Meditating to that familiar feeling, a domineering mind drags me through the days, and I relax in its grip. Lying in pools of myself is quite a luxury: somewhere along the way, watching my body fizzle into the ground became erotic. I watch myself have sex in the mirror, I scream and become someone else, I eat my fingernails, throw them up, surround myself with stick figures so I can focus on my gluttonous misery.

Often, the realisation strikes that I enjoy the feeling of rain on my skin, not just the sound it makes on my windows. This comfort can be as fleeting as a raindrop, but it hits me like a storm when surrounded with those who see my body for what it is and navigate it gently. Right now, I’m alone for the first time in days, so I’m standing in the hot sun watching my skin turn pink. As my thoughts become meandering and endless, I decide to swim in the ocean rather than rub sand into my skin. I’m in Portugal, an old global power. I climb old hills. Vices, I shoot at them from the top of a castle, enemies climbing my long locks. Although it has become easier to ignore the fight and enjoy the view, I would still get cold at nighttime without my inorganic, molten bones.

21st-ish aug 25. raspberry shampoo

in the dark, no responses

i have conversations

with moths and monsters

and all of god's creations

who take my shorts

through thread i'm eaten

but tired i'm not

they relinquish my blood

it doesn't hurt

metal tastes like luck

smell sweet, attract bugs

a piece of meat with sharp lungs

17th-ish aug 25 bugs poem no1 (ag cook mention)

a hole has been dug

i fall so easy

colonies of bugs

drink blood so needy

moths, light, blind luck

through clothes they wont hear me

///////////////////////////

rolling on gothic appetites

sweet juiced labour

a soft stone embrace

artery walls shimmer

bone hands, a sacrifice

no play or sticky fingers

eyes feel no light

warm bodies must linger

i wrote this about a girl who didnt want me back (weird)

Rough translation:

The days in the dew
Your months in the deadly heat
Do you remember the nights
There was a real white moon
And a sky as dark as a sky can be
Even when I was tumbling through a cave
I could feel your wisdom in front of me
Maybe I heard your voice
Or a stone kicking a rock
It wouldn’t make any difference to me