Wordless Whimsy

Hello, I write flabby things. (copyright applies). Send whatever you want.

I am petulant 
like an illness that refuses to be deadly.
Stooped over
and grinning for no reason.
I am frozen
in the middle of a tantrum.
A slow burning tantrum.
I am lonely
like the most nurtured bitch on the stage.
I am panic
one that refuses to
instigate anything other than it’s own panic.
I am inert
but always absorbing
always requiring the energy to
stay stagnant.
I am my own life.

Inevitably we ended up
inside the frame of the same window
six stories up and wide open-
we were the same teetering weight.
Not much has changed.
Sometimes all I can say about it is
how are we not more dead?
Our futures were like bullets,
too fast for us to process,
too dangerous for us to fathom.
I can remember every single point at which we discovered that
pain could be massive
and then managed.
A loud boom
and then we were coping.
But we were always smiling
always smiling
smiling with terrified I eyes
but always smiling.
I guess that’s something.

Snippet

I turn to grace and her head snaps away from me a little too quickly. I realise she’s just watched me, watching Amanda.
I sigh, here we go. “I’m not in love with her”
Grace continues to look suspicious despite my announcement, additioanlly, now she’s also smirking at me. I continue regardless.
"And no, my dislike of Amanda is not actually some sort of simmering resentment brought on by her dumping me after our summer fling by the lake house. And yes, I am in fact, in touch with my own emotions enough to know for sure, that I have not subconsciously configured a catty attachment to her because I cannot consciously fathom my desire for her beautiful soul. And no, I did not just unveil my feelings in an ironically bitter rant that is true."
"Seriously" I conclude "This is not the first fifty minutes of The Last Bridesmaid"
"Hey, that was a good movie"

Late

We all sit in our plastic chairs and compete for her attention. Our faces, elbows and chopsticks are all pointing towards her. Our voices are too loud.
They all place their comments on the tablecloth and wait for her too playfully pick them up. She listens to whatever she wants to, too spoilt with choice to ever have to politely amble along with a conversation that doesn’t ignite anything for her.
She stops listening to Todd, and turns to answer a question that Ben has just asked somebody else.
"It’s was only four hundred days because…"
I stop monitoring her, it’s a waste of energy. I stare out of the window and wait for Grace to arrive. In my head, I go through all the witty ways I can comment on her lateness. 

Her blood sloshed inside her
as if even it didn’t want to move anymore.
They scared her,
it was 1973 and he was
shot while eating a mars bar in Nam.
They were children, really-
although their palms swung like heavy pendulums.

It was as if kettle water had been poured into her veins 
the bubbling tickled, like in the way when sometimes 
anger is sweet.
Even when your throat hurts.
Even when your knuckles strain,
it’s a stampede of stomach butterflies
they tickle
you shout
elation.
She knew they didn’t feel young at all,
but nobody ever really feels that they’re young
not even the children with tiny hands, 
and smooth blood.

The Waiter Forget to Give Him Chopsticks

Our chairs a plastic.
Everybody loves you. Their elbows are pointed at you.
Their forks are are pointed at you.
Say anything. Their ears are pointed at you.
They place their words on the table
and wait for you to pick them up with your skinny fingers and
answer.
You’re missing your chopsticks
they’re loosing their minds.


If grace accepted that her love was found, as popular opinion dictated, crammed into her arteries, caked over the walls of her heart like cholesterol. She felt healthy. Her heart was not broken.

Some girl in a hoodie strides into the room.  
"NOOOOOOO, Snakadaktal is no more" she howls as soon as her knees hit the floorboards.
Mitch freezes “Wait what, what are you saying?”
"They broke up, I just heard, they broke up" 
"Why?" Mitch demands horrified.
"Some bullshit about pursuing new creative paths, the usual press release platitudes" she answers. She sighs and slumps fiercely, the motion swinging her blonde hair around her dismayed face. Hannah laughs at her.
"Goddammit. Goddammit Grace". Her name is Grace.
Hannah, as if noticing that nobody is thinking about her, steps in front of Mitch. Ignoring his dawning pain, she asks “Um, what the hell?”
"Snakadaktal, was only the best most perfect band that this meagre earth ever had the honour of hosting on it’s outer crust" the girl, Grace, answers. 
I chime in. “Obviously not, because they seem to be defected enough to break up”. Grace shifts her knees slightly in order to turn to me, blank surprise briefly invades her otherwise crestfallen expression as she notes my presence.
"Your are absurd" is all she says in response.
Hannah just rolls her eyes, at everyone in the room.

Michael. (desperately needs edit)

I’m one of those teenagers who was never really that impressed with the ‘benefits’ of getting older. Age for me is just an annual alarm clock that screeches, ‘time to start moving Michael’ when I don’t want it to. That’s basically our entire relationship, it lacks a lot of mutual respect and affection.
I don’t understand how easily everyone around me seems to forget that being a dumbass kid was relaxing. Instead most mistake the tiny perks of getting older as vitalising freedoms. Congratulations, it is now socially acceptable for you to wear eyeliner, truly your quality of life is exceptional, you are a bird. 
Eighteen is the calendar jinx that I’m really not looking forward to. Mainly because I don’t want to become legally responsible for my actions. I mean, I’m not suggesting I should, but if I set fire to car and then stole a packet of buffalo wings or something, they’d probably just send me to therapy at this age. I don’t actually want to set fire to car, but I do enjoy the feeling of having the option available to me. As soon as I turn eighteen I’m going to have to start paying attention to jaywalking laws, I will start wasting a lot of my life meandering over to crossings, like some tired, mentally shattered person who is no longer carefree. Like basically every person over the age of thirty I’ve ever met.
They tell you it only gets better from here. And I’m always just like really? I mean, really. I used to gallop around naked in my back yard making motorbike noises, and people would just grin at me, and probably say something along the lines of ‘what an excellent use of your time young man, here have a free biscuit’. Come on, it’s not getting better than that.   
Ah life, I simply cannot wait for you to offer me an eyeliner tutorial when I am sixteen, a handy distraction while you begin to saturate me with menial, middle class panic.
Of course, the other downer about getting older is imminent death. Despite exposure to mtv, I’m not stupid, ageing is literally a death sentence, like literally, I’m being literal, I’m not just saying literally to exaggerate my point. I make grammatical sense. Ageing, that shit will kill you.

I am very very miniscule,
so small that I could line my feet up with the creases in my palm and smack myself to death like I was a mosquito.
My lungs are bulging with the stress of it all, the very very
common and easily avoidable stress of it all.
And I alert myself to my laziness, like I am whipping a hippopotamus on the head with a textbook and it eats me. Roars and then eats me.
Or maybe I eat me, I’m usually munching, it’s hard to tell what’s happening from the inside of a dorito packet.
To full, 
To full,
To full,
with the panic that shifts inside me like a tennis ball pushed
down my oesophagus.  
I promise to only write tragically long words now.
No I don’t, spelling’s for pussies. 

excerpt



She’s in the back garden, slamming the doors of Adam’s mum’s chicken coup. Reflexively, I decide not to slither after her like some kind of spineless, mucus glazed, bottom dweller. Finally, some of my dignity has resurfaced.
My decisions to crash in one of Adam’s uncle’s cheap, and frankly unsafe plastic chairs is sprinkled with danger. It wobbles.
Despite the tiny ‘fuck you’ recieved from my exhausted eyes, an inspection of the rest living room goes ahead. The classy wooden floorboards and the greasy curtains have not changed since yesterday, or the yesterdays before that. I’m not really that sure why I’m still sitting here, but whatever, I’m tired.
I know I should think, I should figure out exactly why I agreed to follow her all the way to that tattoo parlour, at what, like 9am. Who even get’s a tattoo without wearing the swarthy jacket of the night? Her, obviously. I’m still not really that sure why or how she compelled into going. I’m positive she knew I would’t want to come along, but then again, she also knows I don’t bead things onto my train of thought properly before nine. Honestly, I’m impressed that I even thought to put on pants. 

My conclusion is that I was an easy target, soft, slow and mentally inundated. The suspicious cynicism I rely on does not kick in until I wake up, and I was definitely not awake.

The point at which I finally figured out I’d been duped was when we stopped outside a rather depressed newspaper stand a few stores away from the parlour. I was busy trying not to make uncomfortable eye contact with the, if possible, even more depressed vender.
She threw up her not cold arms and gave me only this explanation,
"I swear to god there were sixteen golden retrievers right here like forty minutes ago".

I’m not actually mad at her, not even close to Adam’s anger; I don’t think it really counts to be manipulated, if it was blatant**. It takes away the whole ‘why the hell would you lie to me about puppy?!’ element and leaves you only with the ‘duh, don’t trail after girls who can’t feel the cold and who also wear red cowboy boots un-ironically’. 

Her boots stride back into the room. She stares at me, there’s a certain slackness to her face muscles. Blank, would not the right adjective to describe it, I’m more satisfied with empty.
She stares at me some more before slipping over to the window. 
"He left" I tell her. I thought I’d save her constantly writhing pupils the trouble. All I get is the empty face again.
"Why are you still here" she says without anything, without a questioning*** tone, not even a derisive and disinterested tilt of her chin. Creepy.
I shrug. I haven’t though about that yet anyway.
Her cowboy boots are so red, annoyingly so. She looks like she just slipped on a couple of fire hydrants and called them boots. I’m too exhausted  to broadcast anything mean; to tell her that her that she’s squinting way too much at the moment, and that her eyes are beady because of it. She should really stop staring and just fuck off. But I don’t say anything because I’m that tired, enough that my eyeballs feel swollen and heavy, like somebody’s jammed soaked cotton balls into my sockets.
"I’m tired" I vent to nobody in particular, maybe I’m talking to the plasterboard. 
She changes after I say that, suddenly she’s mad. Some of the colour from her boots somehow diffuses up to her cheeks and her neck flicks back. I really hope she hisses or something, like, I really hope her top lip will pop back up like a tupperware lid and she’ll snarl. I will be so entertained if she pulls a classic Adam rat face.
"Go take a nap then Michael” 
Michael, 
jeez my name is a swearword now. 
"Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody is tired- I bet you’re not even that tired!"
I am. I decide this is a bad time to repeat that though. 
She paces restlessly around the window for a second, she starts doing these sort of slow angry pivots, it’s like a frustrated waltz. She stops to pick up her phone. 
"You know there’s a difference between being bored and tired. You know that right?" she snaps.
I pause, I need a second to pretend to care.
"Hey, that’s a really cool tattoo by the way, it’s like, way cool"
"Oh fuck you."
And then she just waltzes right away.

A Romantic Poem About The Ocean

Our tongues walk up to each other
and squirm like tentacles.
Your hands approach my body and flap around like two
asphyxiated fish, spasming for their lives against a wooden pier.
Our heads smack together like
fluorescent buoys who are nudging each other during waves. 
Your lips are gritty and 
rough like the sand at bottom of the ocean.
Our hair is everywhere, tangled and undulating in
the wind like seaweed.
We’re spitting sea foam.

Red

"You’re a sad little thing aren’t you"
I contemplate this for a second and then just say “Yeah”
She looks a little bit curious, a little bit grim, and a little bit of something I can’t distinguish. Her cowboy boots are so red, annoyingly so. She looks like she just slipped on a couple of fire hydrants and called them boots. I’m too exhausted  to broadcast anything mean; to tell her that her that she’s squinting way too much at the moment, and that her eyes are beady because of it. She should really stop staring and just fuck off. I don’t say anything because I’m that tired. Tired enough that my eyeballs feel swollen and heavy, like somebody’s jammed soaked cotton balls into my sockets. 
"I’m tired" I tell her.
She changes after I say that, suddenly she’s pissed. Some of the colour from her boots seems to diffuse up to her cheeks and her neck flicks back. I really hope she hisses or something, like, I really hope her top lip will pop back like a tupperware lid and she’ll snarl.
"Go take a nap then Michael” 
Michael, 
jeez my name is a swearword now.
"Everybody, everybody, everybody, everybody is tired- I bet you’re not even that tired!"
I am. I decide this is a bad time to repeat that though.
She does this sort of  angry pivot, a frustrated pirouette to kickoff her frustrated little dance.
"You know there’s a difference between being bored and tired. You know that right"
And then she sort of just waltzes away.

Your breath is misty and sour.
Our tongues collide 
and squirm like tentacles.
Your eyes are closed and your
mouth is thin and frightened. 
Our hands are clenched so tightly
that they melt together.
You smile.

I was so tired that my eyeballs began to feel swollen and heavy, like somebody had shoved drenched tennis balls into my sockets.