the end.

i forgot about this blog. i thought it deserved some kind of conclusion, like all things.

so here's something relatively recent that i think constitutes a conclusion of sorts.

Thoughts escaping into the distance as they chase each other. The abstract future collapses into a gyre that reappears at my feet. In everything I can see lines of creased aging and things that haven’t happened yet. My lips move with the folding of the waves and the platitudes that reek of convention and conformity. A handful of dust spreads itself outwards and climbs up my arm, roughed edges into the side of my neck.

Last night the moon was close and yellow like the insides of my fingers. It blurred behind waves of smoke from my lungs but stayed stuck into the dark cloudy sky like a nail in the back of your head.

I felt lost in the silence of the night in an unusual way that’s hard to trace. Waiting for a response that will break apart in more silence.

I am not this body sitting writing and waiting as time pirouettes around the circles under my eyes.

Stitches of apathy around my spine and non sum qualis eram.

I want to write like Eliot, Pound, Auden, Plath, Yeats, H.D., Oliver, Keats, Bukowski, Atwood, Cohen, Bishop.

ally.

i'm only blogging via Tumblr now
i love you all here! but, yeah.

http://ahhllayne.tumblr.com/

nice dream.

They want to escape, I know, I know.

I can feel the ache in my bones and the voices in my mind and the words in my throat.

I can feel every scrap of me, pulling itself out from the roots.

Deconstructed, as a sentence.

I want to be picked apart and analysed until everything can be ordered and labelled and filed away in separate, clean brown boxes.

I want everything that I’ve ever done to be dissected and separated until my past is nothing

but a few shreds of words; possibly spoken – but impossibly ambiguous.

Words which scream will never leave you.

I want to fall between the cracks in the words, perpetually imbedded in the spoken sentences. And I will be made of words, nothing more and nothing less.

Everything that I’ve ever wanted to be.

Gripping those messy words,

as tightly as you are now, will tear your palms open. Everything will get louder and softer at the same time.

The world pauses, a repetitive asphyxiatingly muted track. The words scream against each other, so now you’re stuck between them as I am.

They create an ocean so blue, I want to sink to the bottom and never look up.

ally.

now, would be a good time to

wake up.

the blue room and a stillness of indecision.

It went a bit like this:

.

Distantly familiar. Like a scent burned into your skin from an incoherent time and place, intractable, more real than any recurring dream of a dusty hallway and fingers of fire dancing across the wall.

Time lagged behind bites of the wind across the back of my neck as I twisted pieces of stringy hair across my fingers. I chewed on some thoughts and words, but let them fall to the back of my throat when everything slowed down and the characters started rotating and becoming fewer.

.

Something like a shock through the tips of my fingers as the figures blurred, save for one. And I scratched at the inside of my arm because it was cold, or because I needed it. I was left floating in the waves of an inexistent deep blue ocean, and the beams of sunlight beat through me with every glance. The waves threw me sideways and I had to hold myself up, without my bones.

.

I hid behind the other faces like a coward with cold fingers. I hid from the ghost in the corner of the dream I can't wake up from. The delusion that is a figure, feeding my fingers as they scratch at the page; drum a syncopated beat into the side of my forehead.

.

Then, like a moment from a scene I could orchestrate with a wave of my hands and the focus of my lens, it played out.

Somewhere, somehow, somebody yelled cut and it fell away.

It fell away as sand between my cold, but running fingers.

.

ally.

Somniloquy

Her mind deceives her with the blurred appearance of a ghost.

Serrated between the seams,

and the recurring dreams,

it looks over-exposed and raw.

Like a string of old, rubbish photographs held together by the letters which need to be rearranged.
.
And you’re so tired, aren’t you?
.
This is when I catch her eyes stuck to the corner of the room, and I tell her to turn the music up louder.
.
Why are you still here? This is so stagnant and jilted.
.
She stares at a stain on the wall. She looks into the weeks and months and years.
.
Your eyes are shut, so apathetic.
.
She lies awake.

.

.

ally.

2am

the words which are stuck

somewhere,

twisted together around torn minutes of

apathy and fear -

.

they eat away

at my bones.

fighting each other,

only to be spoken;

to be heard.

.

i am left with the edges of a story.

edges that are torn.

.

the rest of the words are stuck

at the back of your throat.

.

i thought i felt a hint of them,

but if they aren't pressed and rolled together

into words,

how do i know that the thoughts are real?

.

instead they never happened,

blue.

.

my fingers are still cold,

and i turn again,

head in palm,

looking into a blur of time.

.

i am a half.

but between the thoughts;

between the lines

which are blue eyes,

..

i was something else entirely.

.

i went back for them -

the words from the page i couldn't finish reading.

.

Tell me if i can find them.

Tell me if they are there at all.

.

ally.

i don't know if i like this.

sorry if it's really bad, i'm still spending all my time

writing the script for my short film.