Echoes Below

Worn out by love Worn out by pain Worn out by people Worn out by talk Worn out by dreams Worn out by expectations Worn out by dismay Worn out by politics Worn out by society Worn out by animals Worn out by children Worn out by exercise Worn out by appointments Worn out by hope Worn out by fear Worn out by anxiety Worn out by feeling Worn out by sex Worn out by it all.

I felt like a wreck trying to walk to the bus. My body's in pieces and I'm told that I hope to get better. Meanwhile I fall apart. There's no sinking ships here - just empty vessels. There's no use in florid language when I describe what's really happening. Physio appointments, subjects of pain. Moments of wondering if this is real or just another example of a photogenic death. No one reads you anyway, it's all just for show. But the part that wins is the part that dies. Bone structure and muscle tightness. Linking the two together so that they become stones. The rest become like glass. Rehabilitation of destruction. Seismic shifts in disintegration. And we build our laws on shifting politics of stupidity. Hip to hip Heart to heart Who knows that we're all Just fallling apart And in these silent moments, I feel so stupid that I only wish it would end. A pill, a cream or something stronger. Tomorrow's another day. Another day to repeat the same...

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.

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 ...

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

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. Rep...