pearls, earwax and soft(ish) comfort

The other day you visibly tensed your shoulders, those delicate fists clenched like whole bulbs of garlic -

-at the thought of-

(‘How would it feel if I gave you up?’)

-me being attacked. Your need to protect me is dizzying.

Makes me feel like the pearl inside an oyster.

(please don’t ever change)

The way you look at me-

-the thought of that change tastes bitter like old earwax underneath a fingernail

Or a bad raisin.

*

I wonder what the dream in which my dad weeps in a hotel room about his own dad; whilst clutching a favourite childhood book and an old jumper; really means. Whether it means anything. I always like to try and infer meanings, like obsessively listening to a song that pops up in a dream the day after, scouring it for any significance that may float up to the top. But perhaps there is none. Or, perhaps there is, but I’m getting it mixed up.

It could be about dad layers in dreams. The layers and what can slip between those layers; that being the essence of closeness and truth. Or, for there to be enough cushioning between those layers for truth to sit comfortably. In my experience, often not much.

It’s funny (although maybe not that funny) how these can roll over into each other, picking up dust and skin flakes along the way; maybe a few childhood books and old jumpers too. There may be a few songs playing in the background.

Holding back the years.

Do i need some emotional rescue.

And please get your hand out of my pocket.

One mind eats away at the other kind.

This all reminds me of being partially aware of sleepwalking as a child, carrying around handkerchiefs and my brother’s shirts to wave in front of my parents whilst they try and watch tv after I’m meant to be in bed. God knows what i was attempting to communicate to them. Something about runny noses and my brother’s fashion sense, no doubt.

Holding onto soft-ish comfort and missing love.

**

And now all the words have gone on vacation.

Where are the edges - feeling around in the dark for them. Feeling like edgeless rows upon edgeless roses. Nothing presents itself this morning, so i invent something - using you as a testing ground for those edges

The feather duvet constantly flutters its contents around the cheap, dingy carpet. It sticks to everything i can feel the old lining preparing to shed shed shed. I am furious. I am wronged.

But by no one and it had no beginning so where does it end-

***

The sun smiles in mocking jest and I try to think what kind of sweet thing this is. (but if reading between the lines is my forte, why do I try, folding myself onto the lines, i end up trapping us) getting stuck down the cracks and dreaming and screaming and this town has got me like a ghost town.

And squeezing, squeezing, squeezing all the white stuff out out out

Til it turns to red stuff, see-through, now brown, and then it starts to show on the face.

In the thighs. When your feet start to get fucked. If it’s not from walking, then what is?

I need to buy a bike and make sure i get as much love and attention as possible every minute of the day

What else is there, ‘it’s got to be-e-e-e perfect’ and young hearts are much too eager. And is it worth it? But what else is there?

Seeking soft-ish comfort and missing love.

Holding onto soft-ish comfort and missing love.

The rain pours inside and you sweat on the outside and sounds of a fake fairground are mimicked from deep inside your machine.