Tom
tanskii



A voice through the wires on the rainy day. News which never seems real until you ask ''how?'' with a muffled sickness in your tummy and
the whir of static screaming under the ribcage. It's never the news itself which cripples you, it's never the conversation. It's the seconds which become minutes after you hang up. The disorientation and scattered desolation of the punch in the stomach, flitting and not quite knowing what to do. Red faced panic and flight for the tragic, fury an injustice and crumpled hot wet rushes and waves of dizziness. The mind scrambles to remember the last words spoken, those meaningless conversations and never a goodbye.

Tom wasn't a best friend. But with those you didn't see often or know very well, there is a tinge of regret associated with the loss. The sadness and the heartache and the crumpled memories from long ago. The smiling teddy bear who greeted you with a hug and talked to you like an old friend. The Blues musician and his guitar. The endearing and charasmatic charmer with a cheeky smile and welcoming arms.

Memories of all night parties, recovery positions on the saturday, dancing and hedonism and laughing till I cried.
Memories on video tape, in images and melodies.
Forever and a day,
Always a smile and never a tear when thinking of you.

''Listen to the album 'Disraeli Gears' the album, by Cream. It will improve your life''    -Tom Standerline.

April 2008
tanskii

This Years Love?
Inopportune thought processes. The magnificence of this new amount of light truly renders me content as I wander up the creaky hill to town. The warmth and the brightness at 7pm stopped me dead for a second or two. Summer is coming over the horizon. How missed such bliss, the unkissed cloudrise in every single surprise. All it takes is one change to create a new universe. The paper thin, the transparency all these challenges we must pick up like kit bags and smile smile smile. All these vicious and evil sideways glances. The sad truth in the fact there is no such thing  as a second chance. The power of the unspoken can never be underestimated.

The shift of debauchery at the public house next door was broken by the wisdom from the man sitting at the bar. He knocked back his courvousier yet still had the grace of when he had arrived, many hours earlier. The kindness shone on his face and the disco lights caught the whites of his eyes in the reflections of his pupils. Woeful and forlorn the amiable bar wench, dripped in drip trays and red in the cheeks from rushing. Taking a moment to drunkenly lean and smoke a cigarette at the end of the bar. People laughing all around, slurring expresshions and inpromptu dancing. I took a moment to smoke, lean and share my troubles with the near stranger. A paying customer. I explained that something was awry. He looked me in the eye and had the quickest response. The wisdom poured from his kind face and I felt warmth and happiness in my bones. With no indignation (or pre-warned indication) he gently spoke the words I needed to hear, yet didn’t expect. The age old philosophy of life being an ’easy come easy go’ state. He said "Life is too short darlin’, if you want something, go out there and get it, otherwise someone else will snap it up. You could be dead tomorrow" I realised I knew this. It’s not that it was ever obvious, it was so appreciated. Unexpected. It filled my heart with hope.
It’s always the most obvious things, that we’re too blind to see.

All grace poured down the drain with the introduction of hard liquor. My nerves stopping me at the last hurdle. As I scrawled at dawn impatient for patience I found another face to his wisdom. With a head dozy from smoking, from the penchant for wine, from the cosy furnishings; the words fell in to inkyness in my little black book. There is another side. Life’s lesson is to learn surely? From my frevious inexperience comes either a life lesson learned or a coldness. We’ve all seen the embittered who have indeed been bitten and as a result their hand is forever retracted. We have all seen those faithless for their faith has been tested or broken by the reckless or cruel... This is not learning the lessons, this is becoming scared due to a shock. Walking the thin line between love and hate like a tightrope? Know thy heart and be honest with (if no one else) yourself. I realised life is learning, otherwise it’s a vicious indignant circle of constant breakings and contant achings and nothing can get better whilst it’s the same.

These poignant moments. These blissful, soulful and passionate moments of youth are burned on the screen. With musical accompaniment or charitable silence. You can see the same view from the window, the same four walls for many many years. But a change of light, a little movement.. and it’s a new universe.

Never underestimate yourself.

The dreams last night held the face of the previously loved and I awoke glad to be dreaming, with a deep relief that those feelings are forgotten even when remembered. True liberty sails in the forgotten images, those tucked way forever and a day. The coffee grows cold on the table. I grow older every day, and a little wiser. With a little help from my friends.

 



Goodbye Grandad
tanskii

The sickly warmth of the hospital ward filled my nostrils with anxiety and unrest.
Tubes along the side of the corridor, the pungent whiff of alcohol sprays, and the moans of the etiolated who lay upon trolleys. It's impossible to prepare for the sight
of a dear old friend, when tubes are wired to oxygen and they're lucid but just waiting.
He struggled and struggled to breathe in an out. Uncomfortable and troubled in anxiousness of his breath. My insides whirred like a washing machine and when tears pricked my sad eyes they were forced back inside.
'How have you been?' The odd joke cracked here and there, wondering whether to reach out and grab his hand as he struggled. Would it bring comfort? We've never been a tactile family. Rushing out as the screens were pulled around, the beep of the heart monitor, half expecting it to stop. Nan held his hand as the air brought relief and me and dad talked about anything, Japanese horror films, as grandad let go of his fear.

Visiting time was over. We packed up our things and said our goodbyes. I kissed him on the forehead and said goodbye grandad. If I'd known...if you'd known...those old retrospective wonderings..If only.
I walked along the long corridor away from the renal unit with my flat shoes squeaking on the plastique flooring. Swallowing the lump in my throat all the way from Chelmsford to Braintree.

The news came shortly after lunch. Dad the tower of strength, telling me he loved me. Organ failure cannot be fixed. The hot tears fell down from a pitiful expression.
Nan kissing his forehead and telling him Netanya loves him.
Goodbye grandad


Hyperbole
tanskii
 
Stopped. Like a forgotten clock, in between the shards of dellusion and confusion for a moment or two. Chemicals, synthetic or authentic rush in the bloodstream, overwhelming the hyper sensitivity. Such a struggle, why are the shoulders so tense. A talkative introvert amongst the hedonists. They flock and chatter and feel the waves, as they roll off the rocks of their consciousness. Such hopeful idealism, such inconsequencial faux invincibility. I do not laugh, nor bitterly judge. I sit, in between a hundred worlds which are linked by an invisible chain in to each other...
I watch like a giant eye. Devoid of anything but puzzled nonchalance and disarray.
Shrugging my shoulders at the sight before my eyes, it's merely a discontinued vision of something which has become tiresome. How dull it is to sit outside and look in through the curtains of over stimulation in others. Four walls which face nothing but misunderstanding and crossed wires. Fragility in my bones, weariness in my mind.

Muscles ache as my entire body shakes. Mistakes.
The misfortune of experience is being stuck on the finish line lonely.
Sometimes you really need to know where you are.
Strangers in the bodies of friends, finding lost children in your parents, throwing anguish through blurry eyes in to rolling waves, the clifftop in the wind...

Times change. Perception shifts. The mirage of youth falls, and it all becomes so tiring. Omnipresent curiousity drifts along a furrowed brow.
We're just moments in the breeze, molecules bubbling like dots on a map. Tiny irrelevant and incredible.

Smiles stolen for that smile, in those eyes. When someone is gorgeous, we scramble like the lost, kneeling in the dark screaming at each other in fear. We want it to be be beautiful and everything, beyond the surface. We paddle from the depths north before out lungs explode. Grappling to touch the concept, personify the feeling and screaming silently with ice crushed in the chest when it all falls down. It has to fall down to exist, like everything complex and blissful. It will pass. Ownership has nothing to do with devotion, bit it's correlation with infatuation is unmistakable. Those beautiful eyes contain a world of lies, just like yours, just like mine. Skeletons with rope clad necks swing in the closets, black eyed demons clawing at the stomach. 

It will most certainly pass, one way or another. Be thankful for what you have and not what is yours. Or the frost will break your heart in the shadows. Clutching at your own clothes, the shutters will fall and as the train pulls away from a disaster of your own doing... The reflection of the carriage will force you to look in. Regret is the fractured bones after hours, e minor in a dim lit bar with ers and slurrs. Regret is the empty fuck with a dead eyed body. Sorrow is never knowing and grief....grief is to have loved.
Saying goodbye is neither here nor there...it's the moment in time, the story painted, the expression and honesty of what was shared. Tears through cupped hands, will pass. The physical ache will grind away. Time does not heal. Events lead you back, to where you would always be.
God is an invention of the fearful, but we must be fearful to be safe.
On wards and upwards, then downwards.
Tomorrow is another day.


Pff and pah
tanskii


What of softness and wasted youth?

Massacres and escape in the dreams. The sound of devotchka  'undone'  through billowing washing on lines in an ethereal escape in to nearby gardens. Open patio doors and no chase, valium-esque in flowing white. Dreams of murderous fathers, then a stillness on the cusp of lucidity. Then the images of the escapee, the flopsy of Cambridge, the memories of bliss and passion of Tantra. Always, these cruel and vivid images when my tide is at a low ebb. Aching snipets of memories buried in the unconscious. Manifesting like a poltergiest, grabbing the ankles in the night. Love is a flame which burns low but never creates smoke. Waking with a heart rattling in the chest and seconds of heartache. Always broken bones and regret, an atrocity to consciousness and a burden in a lonely heart. Aching is living and existing is loveless. Curiously quiet, pretending to listen, the wasted youth and face slapping lessons contained there in. The one in ten is the lover of which we do not speak. He is in the box in the closet. The skeleton shivering. And what of consciousness when the forces beyond control in the night bring a face. The one so loved, precisely when he loved, how cruel to bring that particular memory. The memory which is beyond comparison, the memory which strikes fear in to a knotted stomach, a fear there will not be a replacement. Snapping in to lunchtime reality, the flashbacks and hauntings of a mind confused by  the inner reel, the crackling imagery and drugery of these times. If hope is the torment then we are all destined to be tormented. Pondering the warmth as sping shines in to vision and blossom adorns bradford street, my squinting relief comes in possibility. Something is around the corner.

Dreams are just places and times, a mind which never stops, processing and ordering. Life is for living.




brief excerpt from new comic

Heroes x
tanskii

This is what happens when you hang out with geeks.... Dan Hindley



Some people
tanskii

 

Some people wear their hearts on their sleeves, ready in the morning, for when they fall in love with
every stranger on the bus. Some people spend their lives through the show reel of the past, caressing
memories of yesteryear, in lockets and memories. Some people are in love with ghosts and shadows
in the night, hoping for the creak of the door, and a bliss which is no more. Some people hope in every second,
impoverished by lonely bones and lonely hearts, forgotten in a heap. Some people try and face the cowardice of the awkward,
sitting in the room alone, hoping for an arm on the shoulder. Hoping for a song from the street below, which never comes.
It's better to regret something done? What about something undone? Where are the victories? When tomorrow is pretending
to be a happy go lucky, when really in the brain chemistry, the light is fast fading. What is tragedy and has it ever really visited me?

Some people appreciate the relief of honesty, the sharpness of clarity which comes from reality.
Some people don't know what to say, and think it is ok. Dangling the inards of another human and leaving
them as nothing more than a limp marionette, spellbound and static, in a pergatory. 

Some people are overwhelmed by bombshells, clutched in the mourning of loves lost and fearsome neuroses.


 





Of Richard and Saints.....broken hearts and dashed hopes....
tanskii
Love is a thought crime it would seem, nobody seems to know what to do anymore.



Innocence must have washed through my cheeks and on to my expression.
A not so familiar figure and the pleasure of friendly chatter turns me like Amelie, in to water. Shivering warmth, frozen sitting forward and short of breath. Nervous like a mouse crouched in the framework of the empty house. Tangled in my own hair and mumbling my words,surprises lurk in every corner of my consciousness. I'm running on autopilot as my insides are ablaze and in every meeting of eyes, my resistance dies.
I would secretly cry in the kitchen because my heart could burst with joy. It means nothing to the visitor most likely. Quite rightly he enjoys his tea politely, unaware of the shivers and unconciously angelic, he chatters away. Close to me.

It grew from somewhere. Once it is something it can never be nothing again.
So, love started to bud from somewhere, it always finds a way to push through the concrete.
It tied an anchor around my heart. My tears splashed on to opened note pads and on New Years Eve it haemorrhaged my insides. What is love without hope? What is hope without love? Scrawled inky stains, as my books became polluted with the sentiments of an infatuated soul.
I am not sure what it is called now. Now there are complicated relationships and virtual fascination, I cannot say what is real and what is not. Although clearly, one knows when caught in a whirlpool, drowning in a silent and profound warmth, with the face of another burning in the daydreams. You know when the tide turns as unfortunate emotions tumble around the consciousness, bringing the bittersweet glimpses in dreams. You know when someone is lurking in those empty moments, on the bus as another heartbreaking song climbs the wires to your ears as you make condensation faces on the windows, in the lowlight of the frosty morning. You know when you sit up in your lonely room dreaming on them, soft skin under cold blankets, alone in a bed for two. What can be more real than promising never to cause a scene, even though you scream in silence and long for nothng else, in the night time. What can be more real than the kiss of another becoming an infidelity to the butterflies encircling in the tummy. What can be more crushing than hoping and hoping for nothing? Eleanor Rigby with the rainsplash tears through glass, sitting at the window, hoping for a letter which never comes. What can be more real than waiting your entire life for something which will never come. I have not the heart to suffocate the butterflies, they're my cross to bear, as I kneel through the dark, without any promise of ever seeing the light.
You know what is real, and it is more precious than anything else in the world. A tangled bundle of misplaced and enrequited gorgeousness may be all I have in this greylight February time. You are the mystery. You will never turn to me and light me up like a Christmas Tree, this is a distinct possibility. You will be the muse, the only one to cause me to be gratefully melancholy and the creator of my tiny bundle of reality.
My secret objet d'art, in the quietude of this Sunday evening.
Whatever your reasons for visting, I'm always glad you have.

Lean your head on my shoulder
tell me about your monsters
and I'll sing them to sleep.

????????
tanskii
Considering the lethargy.
Considering and reacting to the condition my condition is in. Falling away in to a confused redundancy and contemplating all which is limited in this concentrated misfortune. These modern times and this modern disconnection. Typing in to the dark and empty spaces of pages on the internet, Typing in to the lonely and disjointed feelings within. Not enough daylight? Not enough foresight? Not enough of anything in particular? This completely broken down and internal, eternal confusion. Eyes wide open, arms wide open, heart broken, works spoken, words typed, words written all to be forgotten. Nothing can last forever, nothing can wash away the completely ridiculous injuries which come from a little too much serotonin and then the car crash which inevitably follows.

The social networking, discourages real communication. Little boxes in the bottom right of the screen and hopes hung on the washing line, sneaking peeks at the workings of others. Ridiculous little attempts to engage, voyeuristic clicks and flicks through the lives of others....Sitting in a redundant gaze, for many hours at a time......typing thoughts in to another little box, then sending them off to the masses. Orange faces and permanent pouts, screams and shouts, confrontation and relegation. All of this for the price of privacy. All of this mind numbing despondency for the price of an email address and password......Images and pointless expression, no one really cares and this is the only thing I have in common with it all. Walking along a streets at night, looking in through the net curtained and bare windows at the lights within, the happenings within, people living, laughing, eating, fighting and fucking with their curtains wide open. This is the social networking site, you're only shunned if you give away very little. Blind faith and articulations, abbreviations and situations. These are the people I thought I knew, yet no longer care for in this manner. The long lost art of a real conversation, a cup of tea and shared thoughts in person, the expressions on their faces, the beauty of silence, the feeling of skin and visual glimpses of sincerity. This is all wasted on us and will be worse for our children. Disbelief in the bones for all of these cheap thrills and pointless escapades.

My own hand bought in to the hype, relegated the obsession and sought a sense of reality. Too many wasted moments with blurred square eyes and hopes hanging on the wire. Too many fortuitous warning signs dangling in the unconscious. This is not real, the voice in the mind, this is too much. Now, without this, what will be? Will there be a little dip in the social scene, will there be a longed for clean feeling on the inside, will the doors shutting firmly cause there to be knocks at the door? Rings on the telephone or post through the letterbox, or will the insignificance cause me feel as if I'm missing out? I'm certain there is nothing to give up, there is no deprivation, merely a world to gain in the absence of time wasted and pointless mindless information. This is the thing, no one really seems to care for anything genuine anymore.

Head in my hands, they act as a sieve to catch the tears that fall without ever appearing. This dry screaming in the stomach, hysteria and megalomania.....a rapture of mixed feeling, mixed messages and inopportune spontaneity. Downfalls.
Words written in the journal are, on reflection a complete mistake. Bounding in to the last year of this decade with the weight of the world in those pages, it's all so passe, all so grey and irrelevant. Mistakes litter the streets of the inner world, newspapers flapping around the mental entanglement, old cans rickety and hollow blowing in the wind which never dusts out the cobwebs. Cogs remaining creaky and rusting, never turn in the full circle. Disabled by a lack of self discipline. Wanting the world and wanting it now. But never fighting to the finish.
The hope has been replaced by a thought of what will never be, and the butterflies are dying and becoming a sickness in the pit of the stomach. A sense of bitterness, a sense of discalm, a completely numb and dead pair of eyes on the rainy sunday. Heavy bags rustle as the blustery ice cold rain falls, my fingers blue under the weight, music pounding in the ears, no regard for passers by. A coffee and a brisk walk, hair blown in curls across the cheeks, eyes unable to cry yet affected by the wind, stream water down the cheeks. Dreams and terrible things occur to me, the uncertainty of existence plagues me and I wonder for a moment or two....what difference would it make.....would it make any kind of difference at all if... Probably not, it happens to us all eventually. On days like this I resent the one thing I'm most grateful for, the selfishness infects every single thought an for a moment or two I do not care at all. I could happily attempt to fly.
The love which warms my veins and contemplates the graciousness of everyday beauty falls by the wayside, and the greyness piles in. A dark cloud. Not a moments warning. I hope there never comes a spontaneity in that deeply disturbed misfortune, I hope and long for it to leave for good. The clawed talons draped over the shoulders, the chill on the back of the neck, the run and jump, the plunge and fall, the completely empty...broken. The floor below a rhapsody of red, the passer by screams, the run, the vision and the end. The mourning, the forgetting, the vapourisation. In a hundred years you would have never existed, and all would be forgotten. The tragedy of beauty is written on all of our faces, in the broken mascara stream when you get the call, in the shaking of the helmetless policeman on the doorstep, in the voice of the dearly beloved. In the gathering. Like ants we carry our dead and plant them in the ground, but their bones never grow again, they never come back and nothin ever happens again. Never ever again. No voice, no smile and no skin to touch. So why do we hide in our hunched postures, abusing and amusing each other from afar? Transmission without articulation. A lonely and mind fucking experience which amuses the distracted and distracts the centered. I want to feel the love in the blood. Those that do not show love, do not love. I could happily scream yet the road stretched out ahead is full of monsters and plagued with the infected, dejected souls which fall in the pit and make no attempt to crawl out for the sake of their life. This is a tragedy. Watching people die. Tacky omens on the internet in loving memory (and self indulgence). In the most chilled of dark moods I take a step back. I invest in worthwhile pleasures. Whilst my vital organ shivers without a coat in this fiercely lonely winter, broken then sellotaped, broken then glued, broken then broken. Deeply longing, though it's a pointless pursuit...peeling away. Falling in to e-minor. Patient while screaming. Patient for nothing. Dreaming...

2009
tanskii


The war will come.
The war will come and it will blind the dim and insolent..
Fires will burn in every city, glass and pity on the disjointed faces in the streets...
Cuts on the hands and feet...
Bumps in the night, the sky set alight.

Top toes will bring the dawn, this light will break all silence with such a sincerity
Breaking the etiolation of the monsters
Love will win the day

Those in power will leave us to die. Squares are the enmy of creativity, free thinkers suffer inexplicable deaths while walking their dogs.
Throw away your television, before music becomes banknotes and imagination becomes obselete.
Tabloids are ringmasters to the sedate masses, with their dark arts and dead eyed, hollow and artless ''stars''
Everyone is talking about it because it's cheap and common, proles are designed to lack imagination...
It's all distraction......

Young girls programmed to be a lolita as paedophiles are lynched. Children tweaked and made up on the morning bus, eyelashes curled and skirt hitched high, orange faces pouting and posing.
Don't believe the hype, these days lack soul and integrity.
Stand up and be counted.

?

Log in