#head is not empty it is jam packed with contradictions and fur

[hellenhighwater]

Today we learned that Malice does like to be brushed IF the hairbrush is dripping wet.

She does also hate being wet.

Nonsense animal.

[unillustratedadventures]

01 Yellow Tails 02 Cozmojet and the Gnome 03 Succotash 04 Stop-motion Sickness 05 Signal to Noise 06 Narcissist’s Love Song 07 Huxley’s Ape 08 An Open Book for Easy Reading 09 Building Roads in Cage Country 10 Siren Planet 11 About Face 12 No Hands 13 Little Killings 14 Grey Skies (You’d be Surprised) 15 I, Object

Yellow Tails As light smears and staggers, recall underaged huddles ‘round clutched brown papered bottles, in rocky valleys and grassy hills—the undulant old overgrown tip, cold and dark as pitch. Tracing thunderous trains streaking left from right, dragging echo yellow tails. Be soulful. Don’t just ape or steal a spark, for when the fire catches and takes all of that paper and straw to ash, you’ll be empty again. You’ll be empty again. It tends to be mean to treat people as means and not ends. Old overgrown tip, cold and dark as pitch. Tracing thunderous trains streaking left from right, dragging echo yellow tails. Clawing at brick, sneakers scraping loose and kicking off guttering. Scrambling, finally, to the top. “I exist!” But you’ll be empty again. You’ll be empty again. It tends to be mean to treat people as means and not ends. And you’ll be replete again. You’ll be replete again. But you’ll never be complete until the carnage ends. Cold and dark as pitch, tracing thunderous trains streaking left from right, dragging echo yellow tails. As light smears and staggers, recall underaged huddles ‘round clutched brown papered bottles, in dark secret places in every town.

Cozmojet and the Gnome …and then there were three of we misfits (and what a trio to be in). It’s been so long since we sang songs and retold fairytales wrong. It was so fleeting. You always show concern for so little in return. I fear you’re more than I deserve. I’m always embedded in my head, to my own detriment; so I’m thankful for it. There’s nothing like the world to drive home what we share, and what no one else will get. There’s nothing like your home to plainly show that you will never be alone—never really. I’m usually more lost than found. And I know that sometimes I am hard to be around. But keep in mind that you’re in mine. You make me laugh; you give me hope; you make me think that it might just be okay. And there’s not even anything you have to say. You always show concern for so little in return. I fear you’re more than I deserve. I’m always embedded in my head, to my own detriment. So I’m thankful for it.

Succotash I’ve forgotten how to live out loud, 'cause I don’t feel so good. All I do is wait; anticipate. That way, things just stay the same. I thought I’d learned and understood how to get will instead of could. But I’ve forgotten how, or I’m not allowed, to see just where I stood. Too dark to love. A cover up. That way, things stay out of touch. I thought I’d learned and understood how to get will instead of could. I guess my heart’s not in it (for a while I think I cared). It’s not so much heavy as it is a fine dust, carried on the air.

Stop-motion Sickness Tender feelings are tender and ever sensitive to temperature. Torched by temper’s embers (remember?). Warped away from what they were. Words unwoven when they’re frozen first. Left behind in an ill-defined blur. A most significant thing stays confused and oscillations briefly blind. Strobes dismember motion into its mere suggestion; into contrary lines. Static and unending; intertwined. Plunging into darkness countless times. (Maybe this time.) Exposure and explosions. Dismembered motion. Half-remembered pseudo-notions populate a ruined landscape. No clear escape.

Signal to Noise Get ready. Get set. It’s all set in stone. So up for it. So set it up, and sigh sweet nothings for falling for falling for it. In so deeply. In too deep. In the deep end. The fairest-of-weather friend. 'Cause it’s a set up, so take the fall for having it all; for sweet fuck all. “Don’t worry, it will all work out”. “We’ll make it all okay, no doubt”. Prod around in a pack of gum jammed full of spent pieces, for a fresh one lurking hidden under hardening, faintly minty gunk. A falling for falling for it. In so deeply. In too deep. In the deep end. The fairest-of-weather friend. 'Cause it’s a set up, so take the fall for having it all; for sweet fuck all. “Don’t worry, it will all work out”. “We’ll make it all okay”. No doubt. Saturday night; not feeling alright. Not feeling at all. Gnarly young up-for-its smoke and drink on the corner. The plosive thud and tinkle of a dropped bottle smashing as I walk on by. Goodbye.

Narcissist’s Love Song You’re the best (if you’re into me. And only if it’s uncritically). I’m yours completely. (Best if you don’t step out of line.) You’re a person of the most wonderful kind. I wanna be around you all the time. I don’t wanna live without you. I only want you. There’s no one better than you. You’re the worst. You’re less than nothing. I never really thought you were anything. You’re always so keening. You crossed that hidden line that I misplaced in your mind. Now you’re not worth a second of my time. I never wanna be around you. I never liked you. There’s no one worse than you. Or better than you. Or worse than you. Or better than you. I didn’t care (maybe) any of the time. I don’t wanna live without you. I never liked you. There no one worse than you. Or better than you. Worse than you. Worse than you. Worse than you. Better than you.

Huxley’s Ape These stages are not just oddly prolonged, but expanding exponentially. That this race is neotinised. Or these highs cut me down to size, when I get off this ride. The infinite ever holds onto it; to anger; holds back acceptance. That this race is neotinised. Or these highs cut me down to size. If I get off this ride, will I be as low as Huxley’s ape? I risked my mind. I lost my shape. I stayed up late. I lost my way.

An Open Book for Easy Reading Sleeves bloodied, unprotected by dust covers. An unwieldy thing-in-itself, shelved or smothered. Dog-eared, an open book—coffee-stained, underlooked. Low brow pulp fic as high lit, unscrupulously underlined and high-lit. Is any of this going to stick? Abandoned tangents, and thoughts that won’t again but forever once were the first. Spidered marginalia, a fibrous fur. Unending spirals scratched in dirt, deafening but never heard. A clamour of stories, non-linear, contradictory. Overgrown lost plots, rediscovered as parking lots. Is any of this going to stop? Abandoned tangents and thoughts that won’t again but forever once were the worst. Do you see where the story leads? Whole cities of half-built suspense; smoke stacks; cul-de-sacs. Undone by self-reference. Abandoned tangents and thoughts that won’t again but forever once were never learned.

Building Roads in Cage Country Non-toxic 'fore fine hearts were staked black. And good bonds got stabbed in the back, sliced, and entwined me. You venomous snakes. Fang this smitten muscle with slow poison. Rope me in by saying nothing of the stakes. Relatively recently, I was free and not a hostage. I wasn’t kidnapped, but I was taken. Relatively recently I wasn’t captured, but I let myself be captivated by cage country. Gleefully hosed into hands tied in Gordian knots. You see I could off the lot so easy, if only they were. But they aren’t, so I can’t and they’re not. None of them was there and neither was the shot. Relatively recently, I was free and not a hostage. I wasn’t kidnapped, but I was taken. Relatively recently I wasn’t captured, but I let myself be captivated by cage country. What will become of me? I don’t know. Are there any options? Is there a place to go? Does this country have any roads? Relatively recently I wasn’t captured, but I let myself be captivated by cage country. What will become of me? Is there any place to go? Can I build any roads?

Siren Planet The densest fog forms quite quickly from significant words, when they contradict themselves. What is this fresh kind of hell? And can outsiders tell how much this lava melts? How hot it is? Or does it just look like its another innocent spill. Looks can stab. Smarts can cut. A loved one’s actions can kill (it looks like it’s been tried, even though I never will). You are trapped in a place to which you can’t adapt and that you don’t deserve, punished for believing what you heard and trusting what you felt. What have you learned? The exits are painted on the walls. Now you’re told that you held the paintbrush. You were the art director. You willingly walked in the door, knowing what you were in for and wanting to be bricked in. But always isn’t never. It’s one or the other. Or neither. Love isn’t hate or indifference or being absent altogether. So you are trapped. Punished for believing what you heard. An unrestrained grenade ends everything explosively. It’s never right to be a martyr, when the simple truth would avert disaster.

About Face Look at that fucking head. Just fucking look at it—the sheer heft of that big swollen shit-slab, spiteful little deadened beads pissholed into the front of it. It’s only the inflated sense of entitlement that’s propping that monstrosity up. Hang your head down. Point it at the ground. Hang that head down. Bury it in the ground, and mute its every sound. Look at that sense of dread. Just look at it. The sheer threat that widens there before the rage is complicit in the cover up, everything goes red, and you don’t know which way is up and which way is down. Or what’s straight and what’s round. It might be too hard to face. So turn and away and deface it, while trying to save face. It’s wound so tightly. Why would you make everything so much worse than it ever would have been? Hang your head down. Point it at the ground. Hang that head down. Bury it in the ground and mute its every sound. Look at that fucking head. Just fucking look at it.

No Hands I’ll bed rain where an angel slept. Arch joints to crack. Swallowed whole by its throttled roar, holding hissiing hands while it soundly sleeps and dreams of more. For when it reigns, it paws. Rosetta stone, decode this riddle which rigidly holds fixed this lock and holds fast the doors. A manual there, just beyond reach; except by the hands of the clock. I caught clouds, but no clear way to clear them. 'Cause lone walks won’t work, while lean wolves waste away whining whys and howling hows and eating dirt. Choked up on the way we were. A knight and a knave, guarding those gates. Riddle me: which is full of it? Circle the maze and return. If only I could ask something that would get me out of this. Grasp the back of my thigh. Look me in the eye. Reach out and turn my head. Lead me to your bed, tie me up, and leave me there instead. Forget what was said. What else am I good for? When it reigns, it paws. Rosetta stone, decode these riddles which rigidly hold fixed this lock and hold fast the doors. A manual there, just beyond reach; except by the hands of the clock on the timebomb.

Little Killings Breathy yeahs spill from every pore. So plead more, 'til rich get poorer or sore. To fawn for fawn’s choked neck and mourn mornings. Feline paws warm up for a pawing. We’re yawning. Little killings. Knife light whose point had nothing to do with me, those daggers glinting with a light that never came from me. I caught fire accidentally. Bright dagger glint in eyes by dark water; against a wall by a roller door; sat up on a kitchen bench; stabbing out from a blanket sea. It cut so keenly, I saw it fade in real time. I saw it leave me like weather. It cleared out like a storm or like it flooded me. I don’t know whether I just got caught in it, caught fire accidentally. Little killings. Knife light whose point had nothing to do with me, those daggers glinting with a light that never came from me. I caught fire accidentally. Doe neck swept elegant blades of muscled back down compact flanks. Months later those unions still blame you. And back down with murderous curving arches, clearer than anything that came after. Evil grin. Look back daggers. I’m staggered. Little killings. Like weather, it cleared out like a storm or like it flooded me. I don’t know whether I just got caught in it, caught fire accidentally. Little killings. Knife light whose point had nothing to do with me, those daggers glinting with a light that never came from me. It never came from me.

Grey Skies (You’d be Surprised) “You’d be surprised how much owes to the weather”. She downplays the sadness that’s in her. Projects the panic that might just devour her. Pushes out the love that whispers to her in her quieter turns. His intention was never to push her. He was always scared about what he meant to her. He walked in the rain and the gloom just to leave her the sunniest things he could find, and then walk back to his lone perch on the maybe and soon. In a vast way, those small moments fill the days; their sentiment all that remains of what had stood; kept alive, all this time, by their contrast with new skies that were a terrible grey. A cloudy knotted hood, impenetrable and misunderstood. And under it they stood. That special bond had still seemed to be there; signs (both overt and not) that she still cared. But so many important things were never shared. He said that the line seemed to keep moving, consequences accruing. In a vast way, small moments fill the days; their sentiment the only proof of what had stood and never again would. Rigidified, toxic thoughts. Acidic words. Needless force. His hands were tied. His mouth was gagged. He was fed lies—he didn’t know why. Those words will echo still, against his will. Somehow, he had to swallow a bitter pill. Maybe it still brings her tears (even though that’s not how it appears). But in a vast way, those small moments fill the days. You’d be surprised how much owes to the weather.

I, Object Now I know why they swim in sky. It doesn’t help to make it easier that vision is a lie. We do our best to keep it in, but we lose it when we’re wearing thin. We do our best to keep it in, or to have the right thing within. I’ve heard it all. Just not that sound; those low staccato tones of my lost love coming 'round. Honour? I object. It felt so real. But my feelings were alien artefacts you thought you could steal. We do out best to keep it in, but we lose it when we’re wearing thin. We do our best to keep it in, or to have the right thing. To have the right thing, and not drop and break it on the floor. To have the right thing, and keep from always wanting more. To have the right thing for whatever might be in store. To have the right thing. But when all you have left is pain and regret, you better hope you have the right thing to blame.