r a ve

(MELLOW BUT EXCITED) RAVING,

talk incoherently, as if one were delirious or mad;

speak or write about someone or something with great enthusiasm or admiration.

You can breathe out the moisture of your thoughts, and the sound of the sun merges with the sound of the mountains, clear like cold air on your chest in the nighttime woods without fear.

There is light in all inside and outside and everywhere, we are breathing light and we are smelling it into us, from us, all and everything remembers itself. I remember suddenly that the sorrows and pains of life can be looked for, but light stays forever inside, and the sudden unstoppable overwhelming smile lingering from the depths of you.

And is an emotion real or imagined? Pablo Picasso said that Everything you can imagine is real, and that has stayed with me for so long. Don’t make a difference if it’s imagined, you know it is all. Feelings such as this, the sound of mountains in your head, and the sound of the sunset thrumming through you when it is in viewing distance, and looking is never enough until you realise nothing will ever be enough. I fidget and glow together. And with light, not always it comes in great surges of almost dizzy rememberance and happiness, not quite ecstasy, or maybe I haven’t felt it yet, or I remember it differently to when I was feeling it.

It was the morning today and the sunrise was unended and faintly you remember anxiousness too faint to hold onto. After you might remember more. Hungry Heart plays on the playlist of one, and I turn louder and I keep watching the sun and the light as we go up the hill slowly and I forget that we could fall off the side and I don’t have enough time to drum for it and the sudden surge almost immediately comes and takes away from what could be flat but probably just flatter, suddenly all you remember that is immediate tired but real jubilation, and dizziness encases you but you are also free, and inside you you feel huge, expanded, into everywhere and anywhere, and the Feel of Jersey Girl when Bruce Springsteen sang it deep happiness not up there but also up there, and you feel happy softly in fatigued love. And tears began to form but did not fall, but sometimes they do, in gushes like the cotton tail of a white wedding dress long heavy thick only when you look close down the cliff, a waterfall, and when you zoom out it is small and like a person falling off the danger.

Then there is the heart of pain, and the mind of knowing. Sounds like an idiom, and huge Feel sounds are like an idiom are they not?, I just thought it in those words, but pair it with the lingering gaze of your heart when you can’t look enough at beautiful things and you photograph it sixty times and it’s all so same and hard to differ after the time has passed and you are in the future of that moment and it’s anxious wanting to stay there forever. 

And I think this is what my rave is about, admiration for what I feel, what I know, what I want. There is less fervency in these words, perhaps I feel tired but also perhaps more this, I want to write it coherently in the way I fully feel it. Like the sixty photographs that happens so often I have over forty thousand on my phone, I do not want to read it and not understand what I knew then. Of course someone in every mind is everything you forgot, but you cannot take it out without the right key. The key is time, the key is emotion and the key is surroundings, and the key is everything. If the everything is not the everything around you then it is not time to remember. It feels unnatural when you want to remember but you must, I must remember to remember what is now and not before because I am bound to know it strong again. Déja vu. And so many of my wants are intuitive and inherent natural knowings. There are no reasons I can write. Also I don’t want to write them for fear to stop feeling them that way. Will I feel like this tomorrow? I remember the glow I had or imagined I had, and I remember light always when I am suffering. I never go to bed now without kissing and hugging and happily speaking words of love and seeyoutomorrow to my mum and dad.

Where do you go to my lovely when you’re alone in your bed? Where do I go? I go within me, I go everywhere, and the notions of dreams being truths, like Joseph’s dreams are truths, and truths are also the passed ones,

And to not think of theologies and ideologies, Robert Mapplethorpe said he only thought to be a good person.

Were my mind

I WAS SWAYING JUMPING STEPPING ARCHING PUNCHING TWIRLING TO THE SOUNDS OF BELLE AND SEBASTIAN AND 1980s DISCO MY HEAD AND THE PHOTOGRAPHS OF ROBERT MAPPLETHORPE WERE MY MIND AND THE FEELINGS OF SOMETHING LIKE MOONS IN THE WIND THE WILD, HEARING SOMETHING LOUD AND NO ONE IS SHARING THIS FEELING NEAR ME SHARING THEY ARE AND MY HEART WAS THRUMMING FLYING FEELING CRYING LAUGHING AND I REMEMBERED HOW IT IS TO CRY HARD ABOUT SOMETHING EVERY DAY TO FEEL SO MUCH AND MY EARS HURT MY ARMS ACHED IF YOU ALLOW YOU TO FEEL I DONT EVEN STRUGGLE AGAINST THE SADNESS IF THERES SOME MY HEART IS HAPPY CRACK I WAS FEELING LIGHT AND HEAVY AT THE SAME CRACK TIME SWAYING SLOWER AS THE SONG CHANGED FASTER AS THE SONG CHANGED GOING AS I GO

closed eyes sang LOUD my mind was tearing no seams free to tear hopped left right to the sky and back flying through the buildings of my city alone in the closeness a stranger stood close to me and i didn’t know them but they looked like somebody i had seen we had run into each other another day another week everyone i’ve seen everyone i know...and i talked to some and they talked to me and i lingered on their eyes at once my heart soared in nerve...

i saw birds and long coats, deep hard yellow lights in the evening on a tramway, i was swaying jumping stepping arching punching twirling and i was dancing, i was lifting myself into whereabouts, heard myself swallow and forgot the time and my dinner had been hours ago the night was the lamp of my light of my room too warm and too tired

lyrics from space

whistling in space

everyone hears

a wind in my eyes

yellow streaking

and the rings

around the colours

the moons

yellow circles

rings i slide

new still

why should i mind?

when i have seen the other places

and yellow shoots across the sky

and white glitter looks marooned

go now everywhere and anywhere

wonderful life

i throw myself back

yet to know

ears in your mind

i can see the world.

i see the trees

and i see the beings

i can hear them

but smell around

and i smell only my home

big vast world

but i dare not care

we go into the world

dropping slowly

streaking everywhere

and i streak

when i have seen the moons with their flo

wering faces i like myself here

to know the world but not why

the world and streaking through the world

and the lights like circles from my home.

Postcard and diary entry from another perspective

Power, glow in the sky, yellow, substantial self, substantial leaves greatly over and once, white tulips feather out of the sequins, and free, flowers and sports. We were walking together, when I realised I could know everything in simpleness, and I walked, my friends walked, when we reached the gardens I looked at the gardens and couldn’t look enough, there were plants all everywhere! The guard in a blue jumper with their hair swept to the side, they give us flowers and we found somewhere on the rocks looking to the mountain, next to the shallow river clean and glossy and pure, and the mountain angled so beautifully and the trees taller than us. The swaying of the birds atop the trees, sang out and we were very good! Spread biscuits on bread, and drank milk.

tight in my heart, i feel

at last,

the sign under my eyes

reads ‘Closed’

for tonight.

with the moon shining

the tears i didn’t shed

i finally confess

i like the way you smile.

Silver

He strolled slowly over to the panels. A wisp of silver fell from his eyes into the glowing abyss below. The panels hummed gently. Reaching them, he saw her scent waver around the forests of the lamps, intertwined like twigs; their bulbs removed, hollowed like tree caves for squirrels. He looked away. The lamps didn’t glow on their own but he remembered when they did.

a world of guilt settles inside me

i feel like a child.

i don’t know what i want

when they ask me what i want.

i don’t know where i want to be

i don’t know where i am.

why is it that this feeling lingers

deep, entrenched and still somehow soft

in the most awful way possible

as i stand on the stages

kind of tall - not aloof?

i am feeling some sadness

i don’t want to see.

i feel it all the time, i feel it for years.

i laugh and i play, i jump and i hug.

it all warms me then and then i am 

hurt

again in my bed shivering not from cold

my teeth chattering wondering when

someone will climb into my window

and i am scared.

i feel like a child

and i feel these things so deeply like fires

swirling in some green field of gold blue water

and i feel like a child.

i know i’m a child.

i don’t look like a child but i feel like a child

and it hurts

to the core

of

me

that you’d call me young lady

and you’d call someone so innocent

that’s not me.

it faintly angers me

but i know it’s not your fault

i haven’t lost my mind.

i know it’s my fault

it spirals into me like a deep

settling dust

and it is all at once unnoticeable and heavy

and i feel sorrow

mourning for whatever

i feel like i’ve lied to myself

am i living untrue?

i feel like a child

just want to sit in the grass

stare at a mountain

and play.

i want to be free

from all these wanton desires

and why is it that every word speaks to me

with their own mind, i see a different image every time?

i am scared

i believe it is cowardly if i go away

but it hurts very much

i don’t even know why you stay.

why do you love me

why do you care?

i hate myself.

i feel like a child.

but that’s more comforting than being something else.

do i need it?

i read so deep into everything

elle or il? ils or elles? me, 

a girl, and them, boys?

what am i thinking?

language hurts me to

imagine existing

to ponder, to use

and art

hurts to do.

i want to make meaning

ful art in the sun

i want to make it

feeling happy

and free

but i don’t,

because i’ve grown

accustomed

to loving

feeling and freeing

my wishes my worries

my wants and my urges

my art doesn’t belong

(to me in my head)

when i’m good.

when i suffer, i try

to write it away

to draw it to shaky rhythm

of hands on paper

and trembling

keyboards

but ultimately

the hardest pain

i get through it by feeling

by talking by thinking

by finding solace in living.

art is expression but sometimes

i don’t want to express it.

and yet as an artist

(or am i one? yet? or at all?)

i should make art, right?

or do i not need to?

but how will i change the world

with personal kept-to-myself

genius?

am i arrogant? or is it confidence?

i’m bending on my crossed legs

and my back and neck hurt

as i type this fervently.

see my point?

i read so deep into everything.

i’m taking time from my french

i don’t want to fail my grade

again.

She was Pilate

A strange tinkering sound on the roof lit up the sky with shadows. He went out outside to look at it, holding a brown hammer in his hand. It started raining. I was afraid. The tinkerer did not hold up her puppets because she wasn’t there. It was only him. I sat in his armchair, waiting. The rain was slow but it was brittle, and the waves trembled under the shadows. I was glad I was inside. I knew his hammer would rust in the rain.

The rain that poured could have been anything. It could have been his green appetite, or his blue gentleness. But it was mine, I knew it was mine. The shadows signalled to each other with twinkling lights in the sky. He mistook them for stars. I did not. I knew they were like traffic, there and then gone.

Then the sky cleared into a bright yellow. The shadows drifted to the right, and the moon smiled at me. I looked away. On the window across the room, the last of his purple divinity rolled down. Splashed onto the bottom of my heart. Something pink from my eyes. I knew he was, and I let him die.

Ekphrasis

Bay

Today at the beach

Mellow pout at gentle

Free breathin company

Awe for yourself for not hardly

I had deep reflection that was

Gentle and “Look straight here”

Rising with speckled window

And light speculating the

Still air and the horses we ride

“Look straight here” and I saw

My brother holding me and

realised everything is the same,

Everything is Alright and the letter

the general wrote me, I saw

Jesse watching the water

Collar company smiling

I remembered all that I forgotten –

Smooth water wash over me,

Look straight here

"and let thy loud heart keep"

“moon glow sunlit soul.”

my bitter tongue halts my growth but also heals it.

you, advocating yourself, are glitter, artificial to the sun’s warm glow.

at seven, with the coolness of her feeling

the moon upholds truth in her palms outreached to the earth

revealing a fraud, picking portraits for herself.

others blink, fall and are hidden. they do not count to you,

a thief who spits behind the flowers it has laced their arms with.

arrows shoot then, poison-laced,

so quickly i do not even feel them. unless i look behind me

i do not see the shears protruding from my back.

a spine, i have one, does the murmuring creature too?

in the sun’s loving acceptance of all, you have commodified me.

you tend to your own complexion, a painted mimicry of the sun

whose silken textures run over every forest.

yet the moon’s gentle beams reveal if we look.

through the lace gown is a vile appetite:

a flower grew into the soil. 

consuming others has under grown you,

though others thought they understood you;

allowed the wordless breaking of flowers by a painted tyrant.

of you, the sun may believe a flower but the moon confirms a weed.

dawn breaks the silence,

i sought only a hand to hold.

the moon rises from her hammock,

her silver jury crowns my eyes.

knowingly, in the end, under sun or moon: 

flowers still rise.