A retelling of the boy before, when he hid among the brambles with words thicker than blood; a eulogy to a victim and a self hating self opressor; the manifestation of a hollow soul

where this escapes from, i am quite unsure -- grammar, regiment of another, strict structure, the demand of all feeling -- but it is, certainly, an escape. there is surely nothing wrong with seeking asylum at some desperate point, especially since all other retreat is inconsiderate? today, my head was a boiling pot of meat and vegetable stew, with little pieces of my own human flesh thrown in to sweeten the arrangement. although "today" was yesterday, since the silent stroke of midnight has long since past. i spoke as a hollow mechanical shell, lost in verses of despair from the music stores. i glided clumsily along, with my hair blowing against the wind, and my fingertips numb, only to your warmth. my thoughts were equal to those of a confused child; this, i am sure, since i am no more of anything than any other of the skipping, frollicing, prancing and screeching creatures that populated the ground beneath and around me. perhaps we are, in fact, not at all confused? and, perhaps, we all live inside our heads, dancing to our own sweet, sweet melodies, sucking off only who we want? ah, but here is where the wild things doth grow, where the grass is brown and the devil teeth glow. and how many friends do you have, that you don't know about? how many people read you daily, yet hide away, like a cast-out shadow into the dust? i wonder, now, if you were ever as large as you thought you were, or if you were, in fact, far vaster than you could ever have comprehended?

oh no, he didn't like what he saw! it filled him with every frustrated emotion he was capable of containing within his human head: anger, especially, of the intrusion; but mainly (and more importantly), of course, he felt fear. that fear, that is the essence of so much of our behaviour. and so, it was through this fear that he spilled out all the confused, anxious hatred for these feelings from which he was suffering, and swept up into his bare hands, a weapon. he chose swiftly but wisely: he couldn't pick any sort of tool that would simply erase the life force; he had to capture some sort of pain and desperation; else, what's the point? so with a brutish lunge he crippled his antagoniser. he wasn't satisfied (why should he be?), with his questionable result, though, and lunged and lunged again, crushing and grinding, until he was perfectly absolute that no more pain and hurt could possibly be inflicted. a twisted smile of satisfaction crept across his sneering mouth, and he let out a cry of achievement: a war cry for this great and empowering accomplishment, his silent slaughter. it made him feel good to be capable of such an act, and he made no excuse to himself for this.

she said, with her usual smug smile. "apologies for the inconvenience; i was locked inside for fifteen away from an hour." i replied with my sincerity: i have no poetry scattered within my head for you; many, many thoughts, but no binding coherancy. the last thing i want to do is confuse and upset you. "no matter, my dear," she interupted. "you're here now, and all my frustration is forgotten. just remember: i'm the beautiful one. bitch". but, if i were beauty, would i be here, now? would i be capable of all i am? would i function in such a manner as i do; grasping you at the heart, wretching it away from your body, kissing it with lover's lips and stitching it back up again? no, no, no, i doubt i would. if i were beauty, would i sit here, at my smiley entertainment console, hurting you as i do? but, would i also tuck you in at night, whisper "goodnight" and sneak beneath your view, throwing you into my lust, until you implode? no, i am not beauty. i would not choose to be, either. stupid choice, say it all you care, but i stick firmly by my own judgement. i'm beautiful like me.

and when i sing, i sing in a small voice, a soothing voice, a light voice. a hurt voice. whispering versus from someone else's past, and sobbing to the sound of their pain. glimpses, and nothing more, of the flesh beneath the shirt. i can't hold you more. considering how to put this: staying away doesn't necessarliy mean neglection; losing yourself in a honey glaze of happy glee is a possibility too. the inspiration seems pretty numb when it's unnoticed.

the abused, of course, are always the most precious, while the self abusing, always shunned. not worth my time, in her opinion. he says otherwise, but what does that matter? the continuous drill of hammerred keys is comforting for me. you don't care. and you don't care for those brief pauses, the silences for the moments of thought and reflection; those are the worst, the most antagonising. each little slice of quiet feels like just the opposite to that: screams, beaten into the skull like some medievil cure for your own holy disease. and still they continue. but, only because i let them so. "keep yourself above", he says. "above what", you ask. they can only reply with "yourself, my friend". should you not be confused, boy? so my head rings still, from this television hangover. i know it would only stop, should i speak; yet, i detest speaking. when your mouth's open, the flies can get in. the time is, 3:36AM. thank you for your money, stupid. the time is, 3:37AM. thank you for... but talking clock is just another voice, and not real. hush now, Celladoir, baby. it's not your place to speak now, considering all you are, and have become. it's my turn now, and if you try to take that away from me, i shall crush you like a fucking insect. it's ok: i'm comforted by a faint tune from an ancient music box, running through my head. when, or if, i stop, there will be nothing more than the methodical groans of the pianoguitar, delicately plucking away at it's own strings, like the suicidal puppy you know you really are. the growling of a mechanical beast from beyong my bedroom suddenly spoils my blonde view of perfect silence. this frustrates me immensely. i try to sleep. let those damn strings hang themselves for tonight. close my eyes & drift away, to music that puts hole in your head. ah, sweet tranquility: how you cut me so delicately.

at night i sleep with a teddybear called feeling. upon my pillow the drug is there, plain to see, but the random ink blots remind us of our mistakes, and deter. that's all they are, anyway: products of a job never finished, never forgotton. there's a shard of steel rapping at my window. he's come to steal my heart away. this i simply cannot let happen, and i cry. yet, still he raps with broken paw and blood stained tear. only a fairytale spookshadow designed to entertain the minorities. so worry not for my safety; you've far too much too concern yourself with already.

oh, how very kind of her! how just, how fair! how true. but, why shouldn't she reach for the purple opium plant with a razorblade in one hand and her pills in the other, and root it from it's humble mound? it will surely dismiss all frustrated pent-up anxieties; no hypocrisy in pleasure! it's all fair up in heaven after all: the master has every right to abuse the slaves. i wonder now, how she could survive if she were all alone, with nobody to ladle her poisoned addictions upon. of course i'll lap up your breed. another sneering role model with which i must mould myself. which part should i stich in now? and where do i come from? spontaneous internal midnight conversations, etched upon my mental chalkboard. rubbed and dusty, they lie here now, but with similar coherancy to soft chocolate arrows. a land unfamiliar to you; you've probably visited many a time, but were always too tired to bank. celldaoir scrapbook: where dreams are stuffed on brown paper bags and cotton sacks. they lie in wait, for some retired postal worker to deliver the 'h', covering their eyes with mispronounced (and mislaid) tongues. rest in rags, my dear.

and while the ashes lie scattered, cold and lifeless, i wonder if i ever felt anything at all. so sick of these symbols painted in that delicate haze across my body. but i know no better, so what do i do? my inner self is getting the better of me. i am being drowned. my head is being forced below your water: you're screaming at me, and i'm crying for you to stop, but your hands are so blind, and you can't stop pushing... and i'm dying, suffocating, but you can't stop killing me... this is a weaker moment for me. i must be strong. like you. later on, this will all be better, and the emotion can't pour through the seams, and blind your eyes. this is, as ever, nothing another can't handle: but the boy grows so pathetic now... there's a twisting fury in his stomach. i look down to view a translucent flesh surrounding my heart: my face is eating away at my insides. crying again; all it needs is somebody to hold it close, weave it light, right? it would only consume them to the point of their own self decay. all masks, anyway... to whom should i turn? the sweet cutter and heavy kisser? or the glorious white snowflake? i want so badly to hold you in my hand, but you'd only melt away from the heat of my breath. this is something unattainable. at least, he believes so. he's unsure. it's all so confusing for a single boy. let another figure it out. my hands won't stop shaking.

yes, the river may be perhaps the most beautiful, tranquil thing you have ever, and will ever, lay fine eyes upon. however, below every deep, timid shining suface, there lies a bellowing undercurrent, ready to sweep a child off it's feet. beneath the age old ocean, there lies human wreckage, ready to poison your earth. the rose is only sweet until you lay your hands upon it and drip regret.

there's a torn out piece of paper, from some lost old manuscript. it's not from my head guv', honestly it ain't. there's a barely legible passage fading in your sunlight, and this is what it says: the death of a boy, in just one easy payment. beauty? thank you, you really are too kind. i mean that in all dear sincerity. this boy cannot live any longer: this book was his respirator, but he's now been unplugged. they know who they are. unfortunately, some people never stop running. they run so fast, they never know what they have, until they stop and look back. but by then it's all dissapeared. this time, just this one time, though: there is no decay. i will not let you fall apart for me. running round in circles, marking the leaves with our hooves, reminds me of something. clockwork? no; just the faint tick-tick-tocking of someone else's cogs. a spiral that seems too short to matter. sure, i'll be your disposable hero. let's hold hands and sing along, pretend we care and still have our little faces. you lust for sweet decay? you'll find none here, but if i can be your humble, please allow me to decoy while you beat yourself to death.

and i make a wish, as i lie my head upon this pillow to fall alone with my empty, naked beloved. let me grow: unfold these petals, if for a moment, so that i may gaze for a second at that which lies inside. to know that inner boy is all i ask; this one grows a rubber skin, with blowup mouthpiece and painted lips. one second of your time, i beg, so that i may stumble and stutter again. stop me if i seem to cry. whisper politely, and i'll scream a suicidal confession of innocence and purity. the chalk outlines fall to ash as he gives in again: to you, of course. alone and cold, she cries. but not to us. we are the untouchable. the ultimate. bow before your idols, let yourself soak to my stomach -- that cold, stone organ that died with all the others. the heart was always dissalusioned with syllabuls of respect and gratitude. if only i could tear your lies apart with bare fucking teeth. liar, whore, bitch, it's all the same, in the end. you are what you know, what you feel, what you shoot. habits are hereditary. so much to thank for, then. lifeless dolls and paper clothes: hand-me-downs from a forgotten faggot past, kept alive with "IT CAN'T HURT ME IF I WON'T SEE IT".

the tale of a boy who wished to meet his potential continues. drained of hope, he lies at night with nothing more left than a cold, desperate mixture of memory and comfort lust. yet, still, he wishes: at least to know -- to glimpse, to remember -- what's kept so restrained. a face stays in his memory, a symbolic reminder of all that he is. reaching out to all players of desperation... these words keep us dead. i'd like to cut myself open to truly peer inside, and realise all i have, all i am. just to get away. just to return. but my mind plays, instead, like a rundown old movie theater, showing reruns of clipshows of reruns, host to none but a single cultist. the projector runs by itself, in tune with your music box. why not come along, warm yourself on the pretty lights? you seem shocked at the offer. am i that repulsive? these glimpses of life and vitality fighten me also! i know where i stand, on these grounds. a crush for the young, a meal for mature. but you and i, of equal stature? this question i fail to understand. so many "paper clothes", it's hard to see past the papercuts. don't you see them? then take a lok at this: a frog beneath the microscope! you already know what begs to follow... no, not age, consumption and death, that's outside the studio. inside is where you can marvel at the "prettiness", so long as you keep behind the barrier. what more did you expect, from another boy?

a vintage mistress obsesses with the obsessor, again. words ring loud, but no one hears the voice. consider, do they listen? would they? in hope, we affirm, but in all else lies a truth. don't worry, they'll bury it together. handed out and passed around, are we. the newest batch of placebo, used as they please, dispatched as your fuel. except, we are not quite as precious as the oil, are we? the glass infantary, marching against a burning flag. click into your tanks, topple to your conveyor belt, stitch your name - 'beautifulunique' - across your garments. oh, but wear what you please. for you are free, living with your cuddlebunny and merged tales of despair.