What would you like. Close up, silence, closed caption. Changed name to protect…who? From whom? Protection is freedom, but freedom from, or freedom to? All my “A” Level English back to haunt. Inspectors calling, windmills, just out of reach, tilting and all the rest. From this throne I shalt rule, and et cetera. No, none of that. Do you want tears? Fresh from the market, all the firmest, most fine onions for that purpose.What do you like? I can give you close-up shots of eyes before, during, and after tears; a tongue licking the top of teeth; a hand rubbing the cheek.
I have just been back to the hard-copy diaries. How obscene I have been, ignoring them. Seven years of writing and all because of these stupid fake media, these blogs which are so empty, so silly, I leave the pages empty. And how do the other diaries feel? These blogs may give some select few the chance to pretend to be on the pulse of life, but honestly how pathetic, empty, how daft they are. I do not want to be drawn into the lazy reactionary commentary so common amongst the bloggers, the armchair councillors. My diary is much more personal than these daft things, these empty boxes of dirge and boredom.
Sorry, you want me sitting here? Amongst the saints, amongst the clouds. So un-naturally dark, these shadows, these remants of thoughs, now shaped across walls higher than I could reach, let along the suggestion of escape. Thoughts, captured within the finger-taps of want. These are the dry regrets fresh from emersion. All is tired, and so am I, and no doubt so are the ghosts. No more daemons in this room, as there once was, as there has always been. Quality control, zooming into the detail, right up to the smallest of pixels. And once the image is distorted, there are no more pictures. I understand the fragility of photographs, and the currency of a good laugh. Above me, only a storm, and that passes with the avatar granted by humans with no other role in life. Above me, as always, the shadows of ghosts. A silence most acute: and as it goes, all the words are without a linkage to anything stronger than lost hope, so maybe the ghosts are waiting for the death of whichever spark keeps the rest of me alive. It is all start and end, and it is all circles and squares.
What do you want to hear? No, sorry, what would you like to hear? I can give you lyrics, or maybe misquote films? What else are these stupid things for? I can give you context…There is zero, a big hole, a hole I can touch, which is a circle with wings, like an angel without a body, just a hole, just within/without…A paper face drawn from the outside by invisible hands.