You've made me see the beauty in me

I SAID NO

Corruptible force
Uncontrollable objects
Unavoidable subjects
Aggressive humans
Unrequited love
Foolish decisions
Uneasy actions

Hunting a ghost. Picking up echoes. Touching through glass. Seeing through tears. Morse code in a foreign language.

Boy why can't I find you?

.

Your Method is Dubious

chatter

glutton fucks and needy greedy hands slithering about flesh, reptilian and wet. dirty finger nails and thumbless hands tippity tapping hemlines and belt buckles. ghostly manouveres with mechanic precision. inquisitive eyes molest and derobe. raised hair on the back of necks, cold breath on hot skin. grease slicked hair clumping at the ends, falling over brow and face...

chitter

A glass factory stretches far upward into the dark and turbulent sky. A barricade of bitter winter wind causes a sway, ominous like a tree in a storm. The screeching wind deafening and haunted urges all beings to stay inside for what is outside is unsanitary, unsavoury and no good...up to no damn good. There is a sense of unease in everything, a streetlamp struggles to stay lit, litter flies through the air and smashes into walls with frantic energy, signs falter in their roots; even the road wants to turn a different way. There is no traffic and few parked vehicles. No cats calling and no tramps slumped in alleyways. Any sign of life is imagined in the pleading architecture and the gravel that coils in fear as it's trodden upon. Not even the dirt wants to be here.

I am here because I am invited. Where people batten their windows and shiver under robes on wooden floors I will be. Where there is caffiene anxiety, nervous chatter and pestering preparation I am coming. I am a wreckless storm, black and dense and unstoppable. I am here to rip apart buildings, to scatter bodies and brick like hay in a barn. I would rip the core of the Earth out and spill magma into the mouths of every human given the power. A toast to the burning end of life and my cup runneth over. [My cup an eviscerated human carcass and my nectar the heart of the world.]

With the speed of the wind I entered this town, this dank brown crotch of AAAA. It was as though not a cell of oxygen had ever entered the place. The people walked as drones with their mouths stitched shut to savour whatever breath that remained in their paling bodies. For whatever reason they wished to prolong their muted lives, they would gather at the cafeteria and await whatever was served. Food was highly rationed and highly dangerous to consume. Deliveres were not made to the grocer, the butcher had no stock, there were no cows for milk or meat for thousands of miles around. Other options were made available and the feebling authority permitted any route as there would certainly be no outside aid. Did they really need all the talk in the first place? Conversation was detrimental to the workplace and restricting it would surely increase output, business would thrive.
Todays serving had gone off before it had been put in the lorry. What was left was ashen pennicillin which rotted cutlery on touch. Still the downtrodden mass gobbled it up quickly as they could and in the only way they could. Veins bulged instead of mouths salivating and cutlery was needles.
In this town people stopped wearing ties as they symbolised suicide, countless numbers were found hanging from their ties in empty rooms or hidden sections of the library. One had been left so long in an obscure corner or literature that even the books in the aisle began to decompose. Letters dripped to the floor and paper flooded onto the carpet.

another day

I slept a slumberless dream. In the magnitude of silver eyes, I swam away. The thousand glistening tadpoles. Ten hundred cells in pure uniform.

Teeth baring under solid silver, metallic clang. A voice of an officer. Shouting, rasping, angry as barter. Tulips leak a fluid which flees from every orifice. Escaping bloom in spring, in dignity.

There is a depthless pool of gutted carcass. Stark, black + white. A majestic kingdom of white blood and ice.

The elongated being with a red rooster neck was sitting slumped in a brown orifice chair, fetted with a million years of dust and bugs. His long neck craned at the sound of any coercing voice. They sound of nectar, pure and honey.

The words dripped from his lips thick as come. Unspeakable acts wrapped silently in secrecy of sodomy and solitude.

x

oh one oh one

I'm not sure exactly as to what I am meant to write here. Surely there should be some forewarned reason or list of literary intent?
No.

I am grossly drawn to the dreary side of human mentality. I love the mundane, apparently boring, aspects of human life. To sit beside someone for however many hours watching recurrent television is, to me, bliss. Why?

I like to feel the oxyen beneath the ribcage. I imagine the breathing human apparatus inside the web of flesh, the operational calcium, the sternum heaving heavily outward. I can see the pink and heat of lungs and air. The heart is sending life to every external. Between my legs the pulse in his thigh is beating. Our veins collide as they stretch for space, forcing their barrier outward into one another. I feel nauseated and soothed in the same moment. Tentatively grabbing for comfort, imagining thickening blood and blue tracts beneath the delicate skin of the inner wrist.

Such soft comfort. The pulse in the forehead like beating winds on a branch, tangled and furious in a storm.
A hero would not be a hero nor a villain a villain if they had not committed to their actions. Thus whatever I say should be accounted to truly give record of what or who I am. To delete any word would indeed be censorship and who am I to hide the world from my own imagination? What would be the point to speak at all if I weren't to bare all thoughts for the public domain?

I would stand as some icon, some lie, some christchild I could never live up to be.

I am me. I am Mika. Michael. Whoever. I am these bones within muscle within skin, typing at the command of a synapse. I am a thoughtful being. A thoughtless monster.

To be now, to vow....should I utter such words to curse myself as forever being..honest?

Can I really be the vitriol and hate I feel? Can I be as truthful as Honesty itself?

There is so much trouble and danger in bringing out the bad and Good. For one I know I have much faith in humankind; but I, of ill-will intent, am troubled. I feed off negative things that benefit me, such a human infliction. Will I ever overcome selfishness or will it become me? In my search for purity what, what, WHAT will I turn into?
What will I uncover?

She had the widest smile, her lips were far apart.
She let all the boys know how happy she was
With the mouth beneath her heart.

I'm having frequent nightmares.

There was one boy, the decapitator. He slashed open the thick throats of men and pulled everything out. He severed the heads of beautiful women, stretched the skin of their mouths back so far they had a permanent and full grimace. They were wild eyed with horror yet smiling all the same.

The floor was filling with sticky blood. One cadaver left in a bathtub began to decompose rapidly, began to bubble and burst, spilling over the edges. Green and gore and skin and hair started to fill the room. Bodies melted together in unholy union. The sound was like a boiling kettle and everything in view was angry liquid rising...

I looked down at my knife and woke up.

CIRCLES

How ugly will I become?

How beautiful was I?

How good should I be?

How bad have I been?

we are waves

I have to take a deep breath, dragging oxygen to the very pit of my body. As a wreck of nerves and with my body bruised I heave myself up the stairs and take my seat at the front of the bus. Sitting alone in front of the windscreen I can see so much pass by. The depth of field stretches far, holding secrets in the distance and telling stories of other lives. I want to expand so much that the integrity of my being collapses and I am part of the air.

Another long, deep breath.

I slump my head against the glass and watch kids run into the road, buses storm past men who a few seconds previously had attempted to step foot out in front of them. I think...ants. I think of futility. My eyes don't come to focus on any one thing but more observe everything in range. I am totally aware of time passing, every second and thought. I ebb back into myself as I exhale, as though there's no life in me without the air. The city is far and grey and stretches out into the sky and space and forever and I'm inside of a machine that wants to keep me on the dirty Earth.

The sun falls out from behind a cloud...I close my eyes to pretend I'm not there and people can't see me. I am white light and I am warm. I think of space and the future, I feel a sort of happy sad. The comfort and fear of the universe all at once.

One day there will be nothing at all, so sleep easy.

O

x

I am more inclined to believe in God than monogamy.

Gloomy Sunday as sung by Billie Holiday minus 'dreaming'

Better words than I could say;

Sunday is gloomy,
My hours are slumberless
Dearest the shadows
I live with are numberless
Little white flowers
Will never awaken you
Not where the black coach
Of sorrow has taken you
Angels have no thoughts
Of ever returning you
Wouldn't they be angry
If I thought of joining you?

Gloomy sunday
Gloomy is sunday,
With shadows I spend it all
My heart and I
Have decided to end it all
Soon there'll be candles
And prayers that are said I know
But let them not weep
Let them know that I'm glad to go
Death is no dream
For in death I'm caressing you
With the last breath of my soul
I'll be blessing you

Bleaker Days and so forth

Winter is whispering to me like a buried lover...dig at mud until I reach rock bottom and suddenly smack onto veneered wood. A mirror with no reflection, frostbitten fingers and white cheeks.

He's close but further than my grasp, in spite of his body being under mine.

The dark and deadlier days lay just ahead, and they are welcome.

One day I will be the snow on your nose and not the ice in your heart.

All the atoms as one...unite. Untie.

The next war will be on celebrity.

MY FACE COMES OFF IN THE SHOWER

I have not much to say, tomorrow is the day I begin working with a musical friend on a new endevour. I'm always anxious when teaming with people creatively as there's always room for critique, although I welcome that. Displaying private writing for the first time to somebody is bound to be unpleasant. I hope it goes well and I can spit and slice...

I want to be infamous.

Incorporeal I'd like to be

{En route to San Francisco. Taken on my phone.}

I can't describe what I feel, can't put my finger on it. Clouds are intangible.

I could freefall from the plane to burst into a billion molecules

A rhythm,

a wave

The void of space,
the hum of the universe.

TWO

This lazy, hazy hangover will most likely subside next Tuesday. After all, my weekends are longer than most people's and I consume an unfathomable amount of alcohol each and every day. The sun is bursting through my blinds and swelling my bedroom with light but it is most welcolme. I'm not really one to lay in bed all day, it's good to get up and out there. We don't have enough days like this on our wet little island, and when it DOES come we are embittered by the sweat and the sticky and the overpriced water in bottles.

My most favourite view is above the clouds out a plane window. Too bad the dreams in which I fly can't ever be true, perhaps I'll skydive one day. However knowing my luck I'd land with a splat and that'd be the end of me. Actually it wouldn't, I'd suffer endless injuries but bloody live on. I'm getting a really good list of scars from stupid accidents.

I am quite afraid of falling to my death. I also have a considerable fear of glass and one day I am convinced I will trip in the street and poke an eye out on one for those godawful spikes they put along the fencing in Camden. I always walk next to the road to avoid them which also is senseless because I'm fairly certain I will be run over. Hopefully by a bus and it'd be quick, but I'd probably get a moped sever or break a limb and carry on to live another day as a sort of frankenstein doll.

Now this is really no way for a rational mind to be thinking on a beautiful day but such is me. I know it's not normal but I do see trouble wherever I look.

Last night I bumped into the one they call Princess Julia and discussed possibly moving in to her Old Street flat. I'd like to move to East London, the atmosphere is vibrant and there's always new people to befriend or irritate. I'm nervous that it's almost too 'cool' for me. I'm usually on the cusp of cool but never quite there, thankfully because I know I couldn't handle being considered cool. I'd fall over or say the wrong thing and be old hat before I knew it. So much for being a Camden crusty.

Anyway, time to view a flat.

ONE

I moved to the great city of London nearly two years ago now and it really doesn't feel that long. Life is fast here and everything is attainable at every hour; drink, drugs, clubs and pubs. Hundreds and thousands of people. Tubes, trains and bendy buses.
The city is dazzling and always stole my heart on my weekends up here as a teenager. Canary Wharf looming over the docks with windows shining brighter than the stars of it's black backdrop. The beautiful Thames viewed from any bridge, the streets with pavement I could kiss and say "I'm Home".
The city injected life into otherwise relatively normal suburban living which I being bred of Essex had sorely needed for some time. 21 going on 16 really, discounting the tail-end of my education as any sort of time well spent. The opposite really is true but I can't hold regrets.

These days I look at it differently. I still cherish everything and I love my Camden house. I believe the bustle is a danger, a swamp. A monster if you will. What can give life can also take it away and I have sometimes had the feeling that the streets will swallow me whole. I also believe that I will be an institution, a fixture of this place for years to come and probably until I die.
There's the birdsound man selling cheap tricks on weekends, the angry beardo who shouts at the air, bald baglady with a toothless smile selling books. There's the punks who are probably the same punks from thirty years ago who most likely will be on the bridge forever. There's the guts of the Hawley Arms, my most beloved of all pubs firstly for it's proximity to my bedroom and secondly for the men in either Fred Perry or leather jackets or any number of rocknroll clothing which I would gladly rip off right then and there at the bar.

But I digress. Days and nights mix into a blur and before you know it you are blurred too. Has it really been two years? What have I achieved? What have I seen, felt, heard?
This is the reason for this very blog. I have not written for so long that even the last few paragraphs have switched something in my mind back on...'that's better'. I want to be able to look back on this so that my last memory is not another bloody hangover.

By now I should really introduce myself. My name is Mika. Mika Doll to many, Michael to one [my grandmother]. One of my best friends in the world put the notion of writing in my head and is likely the first person reading this and I should therefore thank him.
In this blog you will see, as Malcolm put it, my "snapshots and rantings, writings and musings". I am a jack of all trades I suppose but a master in none.

One last thing ; this will be worth your while. That's a fact I state without arrogance but more acceptance because I have come to realise my life is as extreme as my emotions.

Good day.