Kill Me In The Strawberry Fields

Kill me in the strawberry fields where no one may seem to notice. I bring the curtains and the veils, you can drink the wine sweetened with elderflower. Intoxicated on certain lusts which break the mould on growing old. It's here that we fed you, it's here that we led you down garden paths. Quick, dear, we're getting old.

Gorging on demise, a secret network - a disguise. I want to follow, I want to get lost in the image. To dream impossible things stuck on a level that's never giving, never yielding to the mistakes that have always been. I only escape in my dreams and even they start to suffocate. Kill me in the strawberry fields where no one may seem to notice. I bring the curtains and veils, you can drink the wine sweetened with elderflower. I fear that talking may make an enemy out of me.

I used to daydream while in churches. Whenever the priest would drone on in his sermons, I was always fascinated by the speakers, the ceiling that looked like biscuit tin openers. I would imagine that a rope would come down the ceiling and by climbing up and pushing the ceiling open you would be located in this dark universe with creatures that would grab at your ankles. There was also a mirror facing the choir which I thought was a portal into another dimension which was similar but sinister.

Whatever you would do, the shadows would mimic. Drawn out by the creatures. They would tie you up and put you on a clothes rack for people to look at you on display. They would send miniature versions of yourself into a doorway located in your chest, to see your body working as a clock.

I Take Photographs

In the institute of time, I fade into flayed fragments of a forgotten past. My dreams entitled me to nothing. The meridian skies pass over and we find dust in the dusk. The ingredients of forgotten memories, feel somewhat forced into a new setting. I take photographs to remind myself I'm still alive. Only I wish it was a real camera.

Tomorrow sets the start of the stumbling blocks. I'm out again to deal with another life in another tangent. But of course they look the same, they always do. I'm not part of a process but a segment of what has been and what will be. I thought we could radiate into something beautiful but we're poisonously poised into something not quite the sum of its parts. But then who is in this life?

You're an old foe but full of woe. A familiar story that helps us battle on. The entitlement of something else that will not quite be as possible as before. And you said you owned me. That it's too late to back out now. Not that it matters but you rather force the point through. There's always exits that exist but then I could feel my own sense of shame falling on me if I turned the latch.

I take photographs to remind myself I'm still alive. Only I wish they were real. The meridian skies wouldn't feel so special anymore. The difference in our mindsets is that of a programme switch. I hold you and you hold me. We're not so special. The greatness of our lies is that we cope with them. But then you tell me I could so much better. It makes me feel as if you belittle the two of us in a condescending streak.

I take photographs. Doesn't matter which way it goes. It all makes sense in the end. Doesn't it?

Splintered tangents dividing within itself. To cut through everything that was. I am the ghost of a shadow that never was.

Twinge Of Regret

A point. Deceptive to the cause. I wanted to be alone. I crush and falter to flatter. And here we are. Now where do we go?

You make it sound so easy. I wish I knew what to do. Pick up pieces and seek around. Document old failings. Be familiar. Your dreams are ever-fading in the plot lines of your tired story.

I find. I destroy. Same old, same old. Conversations have familiar structures. The constructs of familiar mechanisms. It's you who is, isn't it? Or do I find myself running by the old shame. Take the pictures with you. Everything felt flimsy, you were guided by whimsy.

I don't know anymore. Everything feels like an agenda creeping up. I've given up on the things I used to like. When is the time? What is the hour? The minutes of the agenda are restless in resting. I am the secret of an old enigma that's been given away. I sell myself at a price.

You make do. Accept someone who isn't. I look at the catalogue with a twinge of regret. It never ends. Repeat songs that made sense back then. Do they now? What does it matter? There's nothing to live up to but the shade of your broken dreams. And what were they all about anyway?

Cloak me up, send me in a parcel. Become something else. It's all I ever was meant for. Casually putting a different story together. The difficulty that it's become. Familiar reasoning won't last. You've got to find another way.

Here it comes, here it goes. Take it all so that nobody knows.  It's all that we have so do what you will. I'm not sure I have the heart for it anymore.

Fever Dream 6

An Irish family go on a foreign TV game show acting out bits and pieces of a theatrical show in a language they don't understand. They try their best but a woman interrupts their attempts by saying "You're Irish, you wouldn't understand!" Since the language is French, the following is said "Si vous comprenez, alors voila, félicitations!" They get to the next level of the show where the youngest decides to take a short cut up a tree that's inside a building and presses a button that's to the side of a cage. A mechanical Santa comes up with a deranged smile carries a list. His recorded voice intones "Congratulations, by pressing this button you will have to wait until next Christmas." The mother cries "You can't just leave him here!"