i haven't slept in 40 hours.



in this life, there are no clean breaks. everything is torn car seats + clouds of blue smoke. everything is the way your feet hit the cold asphalt, the dead tint that a cop siren light gives yr skin, coffee mugs full of white wine; everything is modern life is fucking war. everything is going to the tavern in a trolly + free pineapple punch + walking to the pub wearing party hats & stumbling forwards; following our helium balloons. drugs in somebody's living room filled with kittens + puppies + inner circle rum. & the fucking pub is terrible because you're always in somebody's lap or being steered there, being stared at or sized up or having drinks dropped on you. accidentally on purpose doing fake ID lines of pop rocks.

vague casual blur of a few hours squeezed uncomfortable in between him or her or him or him or her. cigarette after cigarette after cigarette, throat cut to shit + the timbre back in my vowels. sitting in the same corner next to the same boy for most of the night, shifting only to use the bathroom or get another glass of water or stare disinterestedly around the room, searching for some kind of explosive esoteric purpose. shifting only to lean forward, to run your fingers through your possessions, looking for cigarette lighters or salvation.

when you go long enough without sleep, everything flickers slightly. nonexistant steam rises from all objects + lights glitter with a sickly realistic stutter. your stomach drops, mouth dries out & yr neck cracks more than you remember it ever doing. vague nausea. a burning sensation in the throat. difficulty swallowing. accentuated heaviness.

trouble is an acceptable enough nickname for either of us. across tables & time signatures i get thrown these glances & [>>> when we leave, he asks me "so, how is _______?" & when my answer is "how the fuck is _______?", he does nothing but drag drag drag on his cigarettes + throw the filters at the oncoming traffic, like it was his body.] across rooms & one day countries your eyes fish for mine, and i am less inclined to take the bait. it's only distance, love. it's only distance.

outside service stations at two & three am is where i find these scattered boy apologies; as though stranded in hardly used pockets, lost amongst tissues + change that must be rattled out from the deep to pay for fuel or gum or permission to hold hands. these embraces that cut through sweaters and last the force of inhalations, crushing ribs and forcing little breaths out of little mouths, these adults that you learn to rock to sleep.

i missed you, is the promise, with two fingers at my cheekbone. we are a generation of men raised by women. i tug hoods down and fix hair and de-lint jackets and think about how fucking dissatisfying all this peripheral closeness is. people treat my body in public like a dinner napkin; something to press innocently to their lips whilst out of focus. i hate being stared at from close up, that drill of giant eyes pouring into your own, the fluid twist to cradle their head in the swan of your neck, mouth drawn innocently across collars. we have enough secrets between us to start a fire right here, in the doorway of the house; freezing to the floorboards while we flick lighters & fingers, + try to warm up our bodies with the ash and useless smoke.


i wrote an entire song tonight, for the first time in nearly two whole months. i'm doing the band design, the split inserts, the art for my demo; finishing lyrics for the band & myself. waiting for ani+gene, enrolling in uni, harrassing my course convenor, fixing my record player, writing more & more & more for this zine. this afternoon i had my first big cry in about two months i think; i shut off for a while there. + it felt so good, just one real emptying out in the shower, that i felt so much stronger after. i'm doing so many things i don't have time to feel sad or anxious or worried; to feel victimised or exploited or looked down on.

all i have time to do is hand out flyers without making eye contact + engage in half-assed polite rhetoric that gets me nowhere. something is always wrong but everything is always beautiful. i'm worried that he has taken vonnegut to new levels of interpretation. i'm worried that something important is happening, or even worse; that nothing is happening at all. i'm worried that inside of him things aren't working properly + he doesn't know what to do but ignore them until they die.

i'm tired of being at people's beck & call. i know i say that a lot. but every time i do, i start to mean it a little bit more. sometimes the boys who should be your best friends become strangers with familiar faces. don't tell me that it's all too far gone.