the needle, fille en aiguilles, the damage done

dear diary,
i am living my life in a fish tank,

drowning in the smell of opium and mouldering rosebuds, just like any other human i am childishly in love with the idea of conquering
death, acquiring eternal youth and endless glory
and perhaps it is naïve of me to think that it is because of this love, this ridiculous infatuation,
these beautifully decaying creatures
and i, la petite chanteuse
have something in common, that we, in some sordid way, share a similar story,
eagerly pushing to evoke and mouth that final wish, like reaching for the shore when
drifting against the current, too far gone and heavily sedated

old (simultaneously) cracking records:
how did we end up losing ourselves in a maze of dreams,
how did we disappear into a world of sleep
how did we end up losing track of everything we ever fought for.

- you write bad poetry, talk about my art, her art, any art, convince me that my actions are made for galleries and galleries alone, strung out performances incomprehensible to anyone but you
- by the end of the day the shallow say:
work was tiresome, it almost killed me, you light a cigarette and talk about science
- a battleground of apathy.
-you play the saddest notes while howling
that happiness makes you cry. and every night i twirl into bed screeching like a banshee:
how i resent loathe detest you, how i long how i dread how i pray
for my hate to finally win.
- and as i see life running up towards me armed with nothing but a whip and a bright pink strap on,
life as the transparent queen of pornography penetrating time and space, life as a blow up dominatrix making the floor quiver and the walls cave in, as i see life running by
you simply caress the keys of the piano, gently whispering
- and war is that leather whip cracking.

we built a madhouse and ripped it to pieces:
it’s all pills, pins and needles, you have to dare, dive deep into the void and step onto the
arena of shadow play. watch the star struck audience jumping out of their seats like pop out windows:
and that is my line and there i go, charging through the scenery like a cossack
legs going barapapapapapapapapabam
arms propelling barapapapapapapapapabam
helicopter voice bouncing off the walls on off on off on off
an angelic voice singing from above, some forgotten lore about blackbirds.
for we are dr jekyll and mr hyde, the masters of oblivion.

1. the difference between being soundless, motionless, quiet, still.
spoken word like a shield spoken word as a feral child spoken word as a newborn freak of nature
2. and when the sun goes down the poltergeist comes out to play.
carrying the legacy of greta garbo in his right pocket, this ghastly spirit was designed
to enter the stage (at a precise moment, the cue of any outsider, definitely not the director)
merely to pronounce
yes, it is true, my name is greta garbo
and i just want to be let alone.
(smoke ashes a sudden disappearance as he was never really there)
3. and it is true, everything is needles, everything is thin purple arms pinned together
by nothing but circumstances, instincts, lingering in the primitive odour of mutual desire

as that time when we were caught in a storm, suddenly
facing the unavoidable explosion of a supernova, rainbow galaxies
stretching like acidic limbs on a litmus carpet across the moonlit sky
and i was dressed in a suit made from neatly carved out pieces of your pale oily skin
slippery and feverish, sliding down the hill in the greasy liquids pouring out of your gaping pores
eyes bouncing from the wet grounds straight through the clouds, us hanging in shreds from the ceiling
and just as always we know as we are desperately dancing like fallen leaves
that everything we are and everything we ever were will once again be reduced
to a single lie, a single platitude scribbled on any faded notepad:
we are out of strawberry jam i never loved you we are out of strawberry jam and breakfast tea
and just as always the sight of yet another lost two trying to escape,
crawl through any crack in fate's stone cold surface.