cygnus olor

dear diary, le circque de soir. where anything could happen. act 1: in which you ask me of what i am thinking and in which i reply (in the shape of a howl or whisper, after dragging myself across a draughty hotel room, the highway, exhibit a: a juvenile glare by the bedside, exhibit b: lolita fingering the frilly lace of our curtains): my mind is a container of humid air, an enclosed archive tapered by images of vanishing swans, my mind is a abandoned photo booth adorned with torn out sheets of music, cut out newspaper articles, headlines before close ups: the brittle curve of a proud neck, the nape at the end of a long winding road sucked into shadow, a sinister minefield, an arched backbone reaching for the highlands. my mind observed under northern lights: a black car with toned windows speeding over a glaciated lake, suddenly spinning out of control, piercing through the ice. my mind is a summer snowfall and abyssal nights, paintings of dying swans scattered over the tundra. my mind is a cave of icicles, a hoard of deer moving like lightning, white birds caught in a sea of broken glass - feathers, twisted bodies, the feeling of taking flight with frozen wings. my mind is a temple for dying snow and falling swans, my mind is specks of stardust and every heart beat eternalised, my mind is how the sun manages to rise every morning, how hard it can be to keep from melting. (a faint smile as the lights fade out) act 2: (inside the white cube) a solitary person sprawled a the floor of a white palace, 1. left ear firmly pressed against echoes and vibrations, 2. right ear listening to the voices of the concrete walls. a group of spectators leaning against the fiber glass, pressing dirty fingers against the television screen, smudging their own perception and from serenity a swift motion: long strands of silver hair shooting out to carelessly brush the monster's cheeks the ceiling mirroring the floor mirroring the ceiling and the sprawled the sprawled solitary spider for everyone to touch and your reflection, your face glued to every surface the distastefully depraved madame d'amour, the silent voyeurs with clouds of silver hair, long strands of silver hair shooting out to stroke your eyes, the chin of your reflection, thin silver arms slithering out from every opening, tracing the outlines of your portrait, silver hands woven into the pair of miniature silk gloves resting on the crown of a grown child's head, a pearly white dove taking flight off an old man's shoulder.

act 3: (pitch black, voice-over) and all that you took has been replaced, what was left cemented in the skyline, you are no one.

lymantria dispar

dear diary, we are the caravan children and i will leave you by nightfall and float through thick shields, veils, membranes of defeat, of resignation, of unsurpassed beauty. we are the caravan children, a mirror cracking from side to side, promises worn like a crown of carnations. 

from dawn to dusk - a creaking carrige past victorian buildings, tall, coarse palaces draped in egyptian finery, moth eaten dresses covering legs and lamp shades, a collection of yellow stamps and faded postcards, violets, pharaohs, a venetian mask in a stranger's window, what does freedom taste like crystal what does it taste like to stay flying?

carried through the hour of the wolf we dream of dahlias - the slow strokes of a paint brush, crude oil, a linen canvas set to flames, distorted faces with serpent eyes lunging from the heat waves. we dream of violets - abandoned soldiers standing in line outside a stranger's apartment, heavy breathing, their smudged reflections in the moonlight, frosted glass, tainted, waiting for their call. what does freedom taste like when it was so reluctantly given? winter apples, warm cider, mud, clay, grime. we dream of peonies, of roses, of a venetian mask weeping shades of purple, soaring high in the sky.

am limit

dear diary, the city will swallow you. 00:00 am

i am stood here, waiting, the cold wet snow melting dripping by the first hit of skin cold and wet wet and cold, the company of heroin bruised heroines brawling, crawling ripped off beads and derranged deeds under the husky streetlights.

i am stood here, waiting, from inside the club and bursting out of the doors she comes twirling here comes the wind the wind here she comes now the breezing wind with eyes like ping pong balls, with eyes her eyes bouncing off the walls her eyes like plates her eyes like planets her eyes that have always seen too much or never quite enough never enough never enough her voice the one of a crow a mirror cracking from side to side and her eyes darting straight through me to the heroines back and forth through me and the heroines and her pupils the size of the moon and inside this tiny tormented body an entire solar system, all the world's madness enclosed, the madness the madness the madness, through every cell through blood through pores purified spiked up madness madness madness her voice the one of a crow a mirror cracking

from side to side this is nothing like heroin my pupils the size of ping pong balls its brushes of madness the cold wet snow through cloth and bone, the whirlwind my whirlwind with eyes dashing through inner spaces otherworldy places like satellites tiny satelliets the comforts of madness her comforting madness her madness her madness her majesty's raving madness and i am just stood here, forever waiting, amongst

the drugs and the thugs rocking to the beat of the cold wet pavement.

euphoria

dear diary,
my tiny tempest.

ever increasing circles

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far this time, did we not

we went too far, baby,
we went too far.

if i were to describe her like a spectrum of colours
for her ignorance – ochra, late autumn, sweet honey wine
for her inevitable demise – something primary,
pommes d’amour, saturated scarlet
for her melodious voice, words sung in harmonies – such a luminous occurrence,
lucid hazy yellow milky azure cloudy diamond sapphire sea
and for her stoic face when loading a gun – tyrian violet, deep brushed velvet
a thin purple hue in between the lands of violence and indifference.

and it’s crystal dancing with skeletal boys, crystal dancing to infinity.
euphoria.

sour liquid candy cane

black cat blues - the panther epilogues, a recollection of the second sleep or
convallaria majalis, puppet to master, master to marionette:


- intoxicate me.
- you know d-d-dolly, there are no obstacles for mindless runaways like me and you
we own nothing but the slight tremor in a worn out chest, a small collection of
unpolished thoughts, we owe to no one but the night
- the burden that is my calling, the indolence aligned with my sin.
- at any given moment we can simply pick up our trash, heave ourselves up by the roots and walk out of the
royal gardens, my puppet my gypsy queen, unhinged from our strings we are barely more than the
simplest compound, any turbid fluid.
- you are a clown, master, a jagged fool.
- dolly my dolly, do not ever let those
filthy hands come near you, do not let them caress you with such vial untruths
- at the final hour, my ridiculous master, when everything is everlastingly lost, for the price of freedom
any limb can be sold, yours and mine and your next door neighbours’,
nothing can live unless something dies, sorrows to be shredded.
- the frozen ponds, dive my dolly dive.
- oceans burning, ripping hunger, to stay, to stand, to linger
- hide my dolly hide, the times are changing and you mustn’t lose track,
the highway hunters - unruly, untied, do not ever let them a glimpse of your innocence.
- paranoia like radioactive decay. in the cheapest hotels under stolen names,
the brick wall sleep induced by barbiturates
- run my dolly run, think of me and think of smoke screens,
confusion by constant movement
slow dance tender hands, anything to allure them.
- my people is getting impatient, master, they have heard of your plans:
rented rooms, sensuous melodies leaking out of poisonous pipes, seductive voices dripping
from the ceiling, softness soaking into any soulless object, into me, they are everywhere, master,
your queen has been abducted.


fragments of faceless lives hung like nonsensical ornaments above the chapel doors
drunken mornings, dim glacial light making every word translucent.
i shall find you, my r, through dawn and dusk we shall remain.

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: WATCH CHICKS WITH DICKS. WATCH DICKS IN CHICKS, WATCH THE SORDID INSIDES OF YOUR MOTHER. 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.

dear diary,
here i stand with my hand in your dirt
just do what you can to erase me.
the frozen hours jumping through days, weeks, months with no end, no beginning
and one day or another, you and i will arrive in
euro trash pastiche candy land and your bags will get stuck in
customs and we will wait five years before i come to collect them with no trace of you but
that cigarette burn on my arm, the one thing you left me before
diving into the ocean with those weights attachted to your naked feet

the only thing you ever let go.

(ten months since they found you, ten months without an end, without a beginning)
jellyfish jellylegs jellybrain (i tape my ears now)
and the most horrible of voices wavering with (cover them)

ecstasy. can you hear me

from the moment it started:

flowers of every kind, your funeral face drowning in petals.

orchids jades hyacinths long stemmed roses, stiff and cold

you could never stop running, tidal waves breaking in the sullen corners of your mouth

and the tiny house on top of the hill still standing

empty. tell me, would you have
looked after my garden,
would you have cared for
my peonies, would you have
taken this magic
outside of me.
(in the hotel lobby, the ancient porter like a clock tower.)

a silent movie neverending

dear diary,

i said hi to forever and something inside of me changed.

life number three, kittycat, i built a gallery in the hollow space where
my brain used to be.

speed of light in a vacuum, in any given medium

dear diary, outside my sphere of obsidian tears pitch black thunder, a pack of werewolves wailing to the drum of the glimmering downpour binocular vision through damp leaves, her majesty of trees: you. mathew, theo, isabel, the seductive breath of opium. - but he was never inside of you? - he has always been inside of me. for you are the children of lingering nightmares latent desires and hummingbirds, missiles of destruction in a crystalline vase.

you, through endless simplification: a monsoon without mercy, the plunging waterfall of yesterday hippie crystals, achromatic prisms, diamonds like eyes, eyes like fire vive la décadence. yours truly, candy darling, creamy summer bloom a bending reflection, translucent, yet again.

how can you cure yourself when every part is infected name the thing able to heal the hole torn by a loved one lost he left her hanging by the snowflakes or standing among in a flock of sleeping flamingos, a myriad of indistinguishable faces. when i tell you - my love equals beaks times the thought of freedom squared you vapourise, turn into the ocean floor, the shattered walls of my castle in the sky your sharpened hands charging through secrets like lightning.