Victim of somebody elses fetishes Part II

Page after page of dates, histories and facts. There is a world out there that swirls in its own doings and undoings as I type and retype. A coffee stands by me, guiding my way in the dark. There is a world out there that turns back to see itself, finds recognition and goes back like a dog after its tail.
The daylight that no one saw has slowly begun to sink with the rays of hope. It had always been sinking for me, but then I moved out like the others. There was no looking back, there just wasn’t. We all walked forwards into the pasts that our flesh and blood was assigned much before we were born.
Unlike me, my body knows where to take me. My appointments here and based solely on its liking and it’s fetishes tie me down. I try and take the most crowded route because learning from the outside has always been a safer ploy for me. I like to spend, I like to smoke, I like to fuck, I like to drink, claimed some of them as I passed by, wrapped around innocent minds, too slow to register the perpetual winter that their childhood has entered. No changes planned there, not unless the flesh and blood found new souls, found new minds. For now, there was rotting, crows feet, despair followed by bouts of wisdom.
The blinding light of joy lifts its skirts to reveal the sorrow that always hides underneath and in sadness they always find their way back in. Little pleasures that always crush, that hold us back, hoping there will be more and they will always be so good.
Like scabs we will pick and pull, enjoying it as we go down.
And when the wound resurfaces we’ll break down, fall to pieces, waking up to find ourselves joined at the hip to yesterday’s picture story -
Each one rubbed a little at the edges, each one fading. Each one a memory we can’t nail down definitively but can always recognize somewhere deep inside.
Soon the scab grows back, we stand back in lines, to march forward, backward, wherever we can go from here.
Never be static, never be static, the Big Brother hiding inside me chants.
An age is walked through and this generation has begun to sink. A mother opens her arms and the children rush back, angry and hurt, still childlike underneath there somewhere.

Words are simple here

It was large and it was warm. There was ice-cream, there was hugging and there were words of promises. They may end soon and I may move. I never remember the happy bits but I always remember how they feel. Like warm chocolate ice cream that turned liquid when my tongue felt it. There was a smell of company and warm sun that blinded us. There was screaming, yodeling and we laughed like God's crazy inventions, which we are.

Not for the first time, I felt, these pieces fit together. We may not be best friends for life, but once you know belonging, you can't go back.

This is happy time. This is simple and untouched by the covers of dull bedrooms and corroding tears. This is the other side you wake up to when you get in touch with yourself.

Mickey men

The land circles over itself, never ending.
The houses of colour and the houses of white,
the houses yawning in sobriety,
the houses screaming bourgeoise.
Passes Red pants, Mickey man, polka shirt and an expensive scarf and mascara
On a black bicycle with white coated pedals
Chanel handbag
Streaking No. 9

Is a colour that falls neither this way nor that
A compromise between yin and yang
The most colourful of greys
The most wonderful of ways
To live

Clown paint for a face
A dress to displace testicles
Inside the house with twisted walls lay
Pictures on display
A mom, a dad, a little white situation
With a strange twisted mirrors
Inviting vacuum
Threatening to consume
Pushing into confines
Putting into place
Everybody without an identity,
Without conformity

You are who you are born as, son
Wide, white winged angels
Cant recover
Queens with no names
Princes with hidden uteruses.