Wordless Whimsy

Hello, I write flabby things. Absolutely everything is written by myself (copyright applies). Pictures are not mine. Though I'm often tempted I don't reblog so everything (poem, quote, borrowed photo) originates from this site. Send whatever you want.

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.

A figure streaks into the room, it folds itself onto it’s knees in one swift plonk. It’s some girl in a hoodie. “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 about it, 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.

I’m one of those teenagers who was never really that impressed with the ‘benefits’ of getting older. Age occasionally begins shoving me between my shoulder blades screaming, ‘time to start moving Michael’. 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. 


I don’t scramble after her. I’m not that pathetic. Instead, I droop into one of Adam’s uncle’s cheap, and frankly unsafe plastic chairs. It wobbles. 
I scan the room with exhausted eyes, making note of the classy wooden floorboards and the greasy curtains. I’m not really that sure why I’m still sitting here, but whatever, I’m tired.
God, I should think, figure out exactly why I agreed to follow her all the way to that parlour, at what, like 9am. Who even get’s a tattoo without wearing the swarthy jacket of the night? Her, obviously. She knew I didn’t want to go, she also knew I don’t bead things onto my thought bracelet properly before nine. But I’m not mad at her, not even close to Adam’s anger; because I don’t think it really counts to be manipulated if you know your being manipulated. It takes away the whole ‘how could you’ 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 is not the right adjective. I’ll settle for 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. It’s a question that wasn’t asked like one, not even a sarcastic one.
I shrug. I haven’t decided why I’m here 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 tell her.
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.
"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 for a second, she starts doing these sort of slow angry pivots, it’s like a frustrated waltz. She halts to pick up her bag.
"You know there’s a difference between being bored and tired. You know that right." 
Oh god, she’s trying to be poignant again. I can see it, I can actually see the beret slithering onto her scalp as she stills, letting her words ring extravagantly between us. I’m going to have to stop this before she swings a dramatically lit cigarette between her fingers and then proceeds to inform me that capitalism is a snake. I slouch in my chair. She grabs her coat and slings it triumphantly over her shoulder.
"Hey, that’s a really cool tattoo by the way, it’s like, so cool"
"Oh fuck you."
And then she sort of just waltzes away.

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 flip up 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. 

As I’m wrangled through puddles 
of sunlight, that sizzle the ground using pricks of
uv.
Change yells very loudly
then very quietly, just to taunt me.

Just around the corner,
all the those hundreds of corners 
that cobble the world.
And the sunbeams stay intact.

Melted
and accidentally tripping over weddings.
You balance everything on your forehead
and so you asses it all with cross-eyes.

A perfect animal
tripping over the sprinkled sunlight 
like each beam was a piece of string.
You dissolve,
Doing things,

You thinks it’s all there,
and that nothing is misunderstood anymore
and that hurts you.

It could be raining
Inside my chest 
and you’d never see the puddle in my lungs.

Your own expendable 
eternity.

I’m sorry all your rodents died.

We ate chocolate pudding that still tasted like the

aluminium tub I’d scooped it out of.

I drank three litres of tap water from
a superhero mug I stole form my brother.

Life is soft like plastic,
but the metal shards in my eyes

might stop being metaphorical soon.

To fix it all, I should buy a watermelon
because people in calendar photos always look

enchanted with black pips stuck on their chins.

You once told me those black seeds

reminded you of rabbit droppings.
Again,

I’m sorry all your rodents died.

We hold hands,
but we hold the facial
expressions of uncomfortable businessmen, forced
to touch elbows in a crowded elevator.
Your mouth is smiling, 
it’s reacting to the fact that my mouth is smiling.

His spit, splatters my jacket and her arm. I’d like to think the glob is cooling the skin just above her elbow, because I can’t decide who’s angrier, him or her rash.
"WHAT THE FUCK SARA!?"
"chill" she says, it’s become a catch phrase today.
"YOU STOLE THE, YOU YOU" there is a tiny pitter patter, as more spit hits my front. I don’t say anything.
"Ew Adam your slobbering all over me" of course she says something.
Adam’s face is now even redder than her rash. I take the opportunity to study his teeth on the occasion his lip is curled over them. It actually makes him look like an angry rat. This is almost funny, almost. 
She tells him to chill out again.
"Chill out, you want me to fucking chill out. You stole my tat!"
"Really Adam" she reprimands him like a child "It was never your tattoo. You only tossed it about as an idea, that’s it."
"EXACTLY! MY IDEA, MY IDEA
She’s sighs, she’s probably bored “Well, there’s nothing anyone can do about it now” 
We all stare at the rat sketched into her arm. It’s delicately inked tail and textured details sit in a pool of blisteringly pink skin. The tattoo is roughly the size of quarter, but her of patch irritated skin is the size of a beer coaster. Because it’s her, I know to assume that it’s not hurting. Adam looks like he wants to peel the artwork right off her arm. He whirls around, probably searching for something to kick. He’ll find nothing malleable in this living room that’s only sprinkled with plastic chairs. He sits down in one of them, pauses for a split second and then immediately gets back up. I freeze as he lances toward me and I continue to stare stupefied as he stalks out of the house. As he disappears down the driveway, I turn around so we can share a grimace. Apparently she’s gone too.

I was so tired my eyeballs felt like drenched tennis balls,
weighing down
inside my sockets.

Nobody really wanted to speak to each other, so we 
all stood with our shoulders touching,
talking about everything we could think of.
Somebody told me they were tired.