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
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.
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
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
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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 wouldnt make any difference to me