stranger's disease

"i wish i believed you when you said that this was my home"




                 (maybe you think that
                  99% of the time
                  my hands are a disappearing act)




the true roses

i'm tired of pretending i don't love
of being unable, inexplicably incapable of letting it all shatter
as if being strong is something i knew fondly of;

i have not been brought to this earth by the mosses and the lichens to tear apart my skin
to lie in a dark room next to those i do love
and pretend this is all just a coincidence and i wasn't invited in,

it's not a lie i'm living,
it's more like an alternate reality
because i see the wrong people coming and i sit next to them
and the time flies by and cries whilst in my hands

i can't remember the times where love seemed a viable foundation
now it's all i can dream of
of a silent home
a transgression of this self-imposed solitude; a miracle
where someone or something reaches through

and sees the softness deep within
which has been growing
while missing
while loving
while forgetting.



the green mountain state and ownership and value

how strange has the time become
i can see it moving through the windows at dusk
when the light outside suddenly turns yellow i think
i think of the yellowish undertone of the hairs in your bed
of the futile smell in the park
of rinsing and how thunderstorms come to wash us clean
but they never come;
afraid of death maybe, afraid of what could happen
maybe if you sat next to me long enough you would see
that i didn't come here to protect you or enslave you
i didn't come here to make you feel alive.
it was more of a way of introducing myself to softness,
learning how to care even when there's nothing to lose.
 in some aspects this has been my life's achievement
but in others, i mumble incessantly, hoping not to fall deep into regret

 i will continue to write these words
even when the winds lose them
when they are scorched to dust by the sun
then a soft murmur from the mountains
will bring you back to me.




a scenario; first screened on national tv during a thunderstorm

i know i’ll miss you but
what is there to keep from the worry?
has the sea seen my claws come out at night?

in the end i know i heard a whisper
and in that moment i let myself cry:
it was a call for a action,
a momumental complaint against
the rules of attraction.

the sun can be felt i know,
i hear the screams at night from the scorched souls
but are they?
or is it just a cry of laughter?
from the muffled sounds of queens i can’t place a voice

my vision is frantic,
a non-stop machine
a sinking ship,
disappearing into oblivion,
flooded lungs and ideals

some of our dreams aren’t coming back.

i wish the blue could help me mourn,
but instead it has helped me announce and realise that this time this life is nothing but the in-between,
dangling in front of everybody’s eyes
a conflict of interest between the bodies
who are hot and cold against my touch.

instead this dream keeps filling itself up with words,
but from the mouth nothing more rich
than silence can be expelled,
possibly derived from a lack of desire,
or a lack of living,
which in some eyes is an equal.

yes i’ll miss you and you’ll see me run away again,
you’re escaping what i always wanted to have,
and you’re denying whatever you get.

from safer shores one day i will greet you,
hopefully with the trophies i had earlier promised you,
a quieter mind and a taste for the genocide
that implies the quality of living;
giving up has never been so easy
since i learned how fast things
into water.

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