mintpepperleper
WASHDOWNWALLS
I watch, I draw, I click, I peel my heels.
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Can we please get some time out? Nature has literally forced it on us, now can you all (corporations and their cogs) please just chill-out and reinvent yourselves as tarantulas in the wild? Thanks
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instagram
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Most days now, there’s a constant lingering feeling- uncomfortable, unshakable; sitting where my liver should be. Is this what people call a heavy heart? Why isn’t it helping me make art? Is it bad for my ‘vibration’? Is it bad joojoo, attracting more heavy stuff? Sometimes I float above my own crown and look down and let out a hollow laugh at my lame ass state, but that’s just self hate. Not even almost close to lightness, is it? Where has it gone, the lightness of warmth? How did it get to this? Going from warm to hot and heavy-that’s what I’d have preferred as the natural progression of things. Not in this case- this godforsaken case that I hadn’t planned on taking on at all, this accidental case of whathavewehere. Here, the natural progression is interrupted by distance, too much time spent on the fence, the inability to get rid of hope once it’s creeped in, no matter what we use as a defence against it.
Hope can be heavy too, yknow. Hope sounds bright but it’s murky, like the distance between what is and what you’d rather have it be. Distance.
Strangely the song ‘Distance’ (Emily King) comes on as I write that sentence. A song that makes it seem lighter than it feels, distance. Natural progression fucked- case has jumped straight from warm to heavy hearted. What must one do now?
Sit with it.
As if it were a hot water bag and I, a menstrual woman with cramps. I sit, and I sit. Sometimes it’s sitting still, sometimes it’s rocking back and forth, like a madwoman, as I watch myself- from within and not above; no high horses needed to judge myself from. Just sit and choose not to hate the state of things. Just watch the heavy feeling wash over the person feeling it. Watch it transform the person, and then itself.
How does that even work?
Maybe it’s the music.
Maybe it’s you.
Sometimes, when I call and you don’t answer, I smile still. I play the game, go for the kill, single player, no problem. Something stops my heart imploding over and over again. The song sinks in. The liver recognises being washed over with something other than it’s usual poison. A foreign substance- Faith.
Where did this come from, where does it go? I hope it stays longer. That hope again, oh no.
‘Distance makes the heart grow...’
Faith. I thank it when it appears.
I sit with it, as if it were an old friend I thought I’d blown it with but no, she’s back. She helps me change the gears of this car I don’t usually drive.
I wonder how you drive. You drive here tomorrow. Do I get to see you?
Does it matter?
I imagine you in this city, in my lane. I take you to a corner where there’s no eyes on us, give you a hug. You refuse to hug me tighter, to let me touch your face. None of it is safe, you say. I let your face be but demand a squeeze. You agree, with apparent reluctance. My heart glows from being close to yours. Warm.
I know how to do this now. I sit with it, weep if I must but if I let the music in, it transforms, like clockwork- from heavy back to warm again. Maybe it’s the faith.
Maybe it’s you-
Teaching me to grow up while retaining the best bits of the child in me. Thank you, thank you. You’ve done this from the start. How can I repay you if not with all of my heart? Would you even want it if it were heavy though? Probably not. So I ought to be careful. You, teaching me to be careful while staying carefree. To focus on looking at the things I can see, and not look for what’s missing. How do I repay you? Maybe the liver, you could use another. Or any organ you want, save the gall bladder - which had to go to bring us together.
I’d share every organ hey, if you want me to(o).
Cause you’ve brought me the best kind of joojoo, you.
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The day of the eclipse
Is the day they stop asking
'What you upto?' 'What about your day?'
'Are you okay?'
It is the day of no phonecalls. Time stalls, it is the day that is
A big gap in a very small but condensed layer
of time that you saved for later, as a blanket, labeled ‘mine’. Time that
you were afraid to live in as it passed (while unwittingly, you wondered, how long could it even last?). True sin, you realise,
is a blessing you don’t let in. Heaving the sighs
you’d been holding, you give the blanket a little folding and the day
of the eclipse then becomes the night when
you wish you could say that you really,
really tried. You realise that
the day you’re calling just a little big gap
may turn out to be the edge, the end,
like ‘Its a wrap!'
But the threads are still bare, the loose ends frayed & you wonder-
Will they pick up where you left off ?
Left hoping for some extra time even before the kick-off, you wonder- who knows
how this day will end. Photo-stories unsent, apologies unspoken, you with your pride all bent, still wide awake and hoping.
But before the night is over, the moon comes back, full swell. So the day of the eclipse is still a night that ends well.
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Okay, peeling off the cling wrap also seems harder than I thought.
Good lord, good bye
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I had no idea revisiting old poetry could be this dangerous. Sure, some years ago I realised the profoundly prophetic quality of anything I wrote/imagined and vowed to never write from a place of misery again. Or at least make sure I speak of hope, or things I would like to pull toward me in life. Or simply recount real events with fondness, if nothing. No more wallowing in worst-case-scenario-spiralling, I promised. I’d seen my imagined words draw in shit ass, fuck shit real life events that went EXACTLY as my sad poems prophesied, although unawares and I was done. So no more, I’d said and all was moderately alright.
But my fucking god. Simply reposting something that I’d written a decade ago ( the last post) during some volatile moments of anxiety, loneliness, lovelessness, and revisiting that yawning pit of misery for a second seemed to have brought back, in the present, actual life conditions that induce the same feelings. Misery isn’t me yet but it’s knocking at my door and I’m here weeping into my pillow trying to will it away with my mind. I don’t need this. No thanks , fuck off?
Also, nice feelings are so hard to get used to when you’ve lived a difficult emotional life. Every day for over a month I’d smile and stare at my phone in disbelief, half expecting the notifications to fade out, half hoping they switch to a different kind, and they did, and then I was like yeah sure can get used to this and then life was like BAM, fuck you. You went back and read your sad old poem twice ship. You don’t allow yourself to feel the right things completely anymore ship. And you take too long to let the sweet things stick, ship. Sure, you try to allow them on your skin- like a slow motion pour of chocolate syrup on pancakes but who forgets to take the fucking cling wrap off of the stack of pancakes first, you fool? And now it’s sliding off, the sweet stuff. Fuck. What you gonna do?
Never had that problem with the misery. You see, I had no access to the cling wrap then. Whatever came was allowed to wash over me, fully and then time after time after time, I let the pain convince me that the only thing coming my way is bitter ooze and hence the cling wrap was procured. What I’m learning now is that you don’t need walls to keep the good stuff out. I used to feel so proud about not having built up crazy walls, uff. Oh you’re so open, accessible, transparent, ship but dammit, the cling wrap! Sometimes even I forget it’s there unless the lights are shone on it, or the syrup is poured by which time, I guess it’s already a little late to peel it off and still allow the light/sweetness in. All these sweet things, hover ever so fleetingly. Fuck, why?
Fucking heartbreak. The only thing felt deeply and repeatedly before the cling wrap came on. Even skimming the sentences I once carefully strung together while going through it, by sheer association,brought all the feelings back into my reality, didnt it? Feelings are dangerous, unless only the right ones are allowed past the cling wrap. One moment I let myself feel it and here I am at the brink of it again, before even having my heart fully surrendered- fucking heartbreak. All this stupid new age manifestation shit starts making all the sense in the world now and I’m like wtf, that was ONE hot minute of entertaining the incorrect emotions and here I am, this stale stack of pancakes still waiting to be soaked in the other, wondering if it’s too late.
At least these things still happen, which is a pleasant surprise. At least I’m prosaic now if not poetic still. At least my metaphors now unpack the problem while also leaving hints of the solution staring me right in the face.
Time to unpack the pancakes now. The cling wrap comes off, but is that one bottle of chocolate syrup still around, still close enough, still facing me and not looking for French toasts or some shit? I’d like some poured kthnx. Will allow self to be soaked.
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these things happen and they make me poetic.
im peeling the soles off my feet
but everything is still strange and absent and
imaginary when im walking all over it. these
things happen.my fingers are all blood and
loose cuticles.im telling you, these things
happen and they're are always watching you through
a peephole with the kind of eyeballs
that turn into a doorknob and lock you in before
you know it.this is irrelevant and it
makes me poetic.
*
this morning i was in
the toilet, singing and imagining that im
at a party with all your friends watching me.
none of them was taking pictures of me. no one
told me i remind them of someone famous.i was ugly
with tufts of hair missing and no one was getting me a
drink and they were staring as though I’m a tortured
polar bear and they're copious amounts
of greenhouse gases. these things happen and
*
they make me a little crazy, a little edgy but
all of it it also makes me majorly poetic.i start seeing
stars appear all over my body and the walls and i
start trying to lick them off and im not sure what
the hell is going on so i decide to write about it.
i cant write, and it makes me feel like my heart
needs to piss. like i'm walking into a
new city with no wind, no sun, no plants and
nothing to grow into.
*
when you were talking about
edges and love and perfectness and love and flames
and love, i thanked you because you wouldn't have
me talking about it too. you dont care. im a huge big black
box of garbage and eagles swoop down to snip the last of
my words. this makes you happy and you leave. these
*
things happen and then we start
writing about how the world must be a peephole
into something huger,more sinister, with
more of a menstrual sense of humor.about how
large amounts of illegal drugs and some
amount of real death would really help. about how
being alone actually makes us stretch our limbs as far as
they'd go, and not just curl up and die. about how
nothing can be salvaged once we start doing this- we
start touching everything as though we're some dusty old
memory,the athlete's foot, or a shard of broken glass.
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Later last night :
I went back to the beach and held your hand, kissed it. I went back to holding your hand. I let you tell me what you found attractive about me. I let you find them again.
When I turned over, the pillow had turned into you. I turned to you in the way that helps you bury your face in my neck.
The only thing it now feels meant for, my neck- The Holder of The Face (yours).
Later last night I didn't hurry me out of feeling
Everything. I was no longer George Costanza. I let myself kiss you on the cheek, I held your face and said sorry, I didn't mean it when I said you're not it. I didn't have to explain that I was reacting violently to my insides telling me that you
Feel like everything. I told you something else instead. About how, when I'd spoken of how my heart and body were broken, you kissed me thrice. Fixed me up like Kintsugi, and that is everything. You are gold, I told you. Nothing else that night should've mattered. I am sorry, I am sorry.
I said I'm sorry I didn't hold you when you spoke of your heartbreak. I held your head to my heart, rocked it back and forth. I hummed that one song I sing to myself when my heart needs to be rocked back and forth. It was magic. I looked at you and asked, 'So, you feeling this?' You were warm again.
Later last night, at the restaurant, when I asked you to press my other finger too, I said its just that I wanted you to touch me again and I smirked. You did it anyway. You smirked too. After you described my voice, I looked at you, touched your face. When we were approaching the lit streets, I said more than, 'ah, back to real life'. I told you that
sitting at the beach with you felt like many dreams come true simultaneously
and how I want keep dreaming it up
again and again so it can keep happening. And it was already happening.
Later last night I did not cry, I felt my heart heave and I let me feel it. I let you, too. It was not the cigarette. I did not ignore your racing heart before the goodbye, I put my palm on it, I took it in. I took it in.
We may not be here again, I thought. You stopped thinking.
Later last night when your face reached my neck, it wasn't accidental.
You were not sorry it happened. There were kisses. You stayed.
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Don't remember thinking about my own mortality before but here we are...this is a first
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Today my crazy
Made your hand go rest on your heart
For a while
And you sighed
It was a good day
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The moon is witness
My mental fitness is not at it's best. I jest, it is
Basically shit. I flex my grey cells only to turn things blue. To turn the new into stale / rotten In two days (but never really forgotten, often fowl to taste). I howl, I run in haste when the nights are cold but the moon is witness
when you walk in
The red starts to show and oh, the
'will you be my slow woah' thing finally makes sense. Pretense has never been
my armour. Neither has anything
else, actually. My bells they
generally ring loud. My heart on one sleeve, while the other wears the clouds of the
blues we invent. But these days, I feel
bent out of shape and jaded, my
baggage too loud inside of my head, 'it's fated' it says, 'to be hated, eventually so why not
just play dead.' So I show up,
no soft corners to turn to. My feet alright but my big old heart is burnt too, like an eggplant but
With no seasonings, not even appetizing, but edible still I hope, as I imagine offering it to you
When you walk in. But your plate, it seems quite full with your
World in your bag, baggage tight in your skull.
I show up, hands frenzied, ready
to just pull at the red. Off my sleeves and out from under your bed and I turn them into
little big flags. And I hoist them around the good, the food, the bad and as
you walk in..
The moon stalls and so does time. I cringe while I think it's a crime to want to feel
This good all the time, it's a crime cause that
is how I become the person who
leaves herself open time and again for plunder. And still,like a fool I wonder why
Am I just seen as broken, red flags jutting out the cracks? I don't want this any longer, I think, don't want to be seen
for what's broken, instead can you be keen on all my pieces that gleam in the sun, edges et al? Will you still call once
You've heard the shatter take place will you still speak of my pieces and of their grace and how great they are
By themselves, or together
Or alongside yours? Of course
that's how I hope it goes cause cause
I don't want to fall in love with you because
we're the same kind of broken, that's not why I'm here. Not here for the brokenness, I want to see all your pieces, see you open up
slowly. Go through all your sinful and your holy
Lay them out, side by side
but I get snide and I forget to pace it cause well, let's face it, when I show up
The eggplant is already burnt. And as you walk in, our blues and reds - they turn on each other But hey the moon is witness, I did notice the light even though the old reds held the reigns of your sight since you'd walked in (or well, did you even? One foot out the door
Just waiting to be given
some tips and notes- before you just move on to the next one, not repeating whatever it is that made this one fleeting ?). Either way, we know
That there was guesswork involved. I couldn't read my feelings aswell as I heard yours. This is hard on the fresh swell of my heart, I should've told you. But all I wanted to really do was to hold you
A little longer. We should've stayed in the restaurant I said, instead. Stayed quiet,
slow, let the longing linger and
I could have shown you I'm a decent singer
Under my breath, inching closer. There was no one around there even, no sir. Could've taken our time, let our pieces be found
Gradually, well, and we could have let
the moon be witness
That lack of mental fitness has nothing on the flexing of the heart and sure they can get fuzzy but chromatic abberation
can also make for
such great art.
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Recovering from sickness of the body and mind and grateful I can afford this life #munchies
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First time at POETRY , I made sure I didn't write any (that day). Made sure I didn't say to you ' yes, writing feels like laying myself out for me to see and make sense of and I've been doing it forever and it's been a great delight but I'll fight the impulse , I will not spell what I wish to say today. Not to you, and not of you oh hell there is no way. '
But my palms were mostly open and my heart was awfully still. There was comfort- it didn't feel like I'd just fucking climbed a hill. And my eyes they kept on travelling to your neck (what was around it? Was too early to see then but I won't stop until I've found it. )
I see the rhymes are now appearing though I'd promised I won't write -that's the danger, scripting strangers into lovers at first sight.
Promised I won't write about you cause I've done it for so long, for so many - it's like starting to hate your own favourite song
just the minute it's about to start making it rain.
Yes, I know that sounded like I just killed my rhyme. I did.
I do this.
I don't say ' The light does look good, yes :)'
'You have a sweet smile,yes'
'I wish you knew me and
Vice versa, vice versa
Vice versa.'
I talk like I really don't want to communicate it and I hate it
but I'm jaded,
was this fated? what to do?
Will you wait as my words
re-assemble to turn
into poetry?
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True story #573
When I think of you now
I start seeing hearts in the puddles
on the road, in the park and I’m
Out in the rain again
But have I ever even been out
in the rain before? It’s not like I’ve forgotten cause I haven’t really done it
in this lifetime, but then - how do I remember, what’s this that I recall? I fall
In love a lot but with this at least I’m
rising above the need for the
cliched shit; the need
to write you
a poem. But I still do. It’s not you,
It’s me, I tell you. I am a Romeo,
I tell you. I smile about it. All my life
when I’ve I thunk of myself and smiled,
I’ve started seeing hearts everywhere, with or without the rain. Stickers have appeared
on pavements, scratches on trains and rust on pebbles (with one third of the piece missing somehow) but now,
I think of you. And I see
a heart shaped puddle cause I’m out
in the park and through the smoke, I notice
that the puddle is
two thirds too empty,
two steps too far.
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Aspirations
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Today I saw fresh graves and realised That I want to be buried on top Of you, which means you either die before me, or we die alongside - after a lifetime of having planned our burial together, among other things. Among other things, I dreamt of three waves to the left of your right ear But when I meet you next, I fear that I will totally forget to check if they are really there on your head because YOUR FACE is a beauty spot that distracts me. A mole (elevated) attracts me, among other things. Among other things, a fantasy celebrated only in my head is what you play right into unawares, in jest. Bro, isn’t this just the best allegory for confession boxes leading us to sin? You will win regardless of which side of the curtained window you are on, but if we collide into each other - while waiting to be born again together, so will I. And I could write you better if this was tomorrow, so I will. But today, I just pray Sitting on the window sill.
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-
Something reeks of hopelessness.
Sometimes feeling so deeply can result in not being able to live fully in other ways and that to me feels incredibly strange but also as I type this- realise is a matter of choice.
Do I choose to be a nutjob left with nothing but poetics; or to sing/live?
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