the self-hypnotist

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“…. you are slowly going into a state of deep relaxation. Slowly and surely, your entire body and mind are relaxing, relaxing, relaxing. you are going deeper and deeper and deeper, into a state of deep relaxation. each and every muscle of your body is now relaxing. everything is so peaceful and quiet. now, counting backwards from 10, you will descend a small staircase….  10…. 9…. 8………………..5……………….. …………. ………………..”

the voice of the self-hypnotist tails off into the night. a new night. a new year.  the voice, now distant, fades into obscurity. into oblivion.

i lie in the dim of my chamber with the weight of the night, and gravity of the new year, pressing upon me. my mind is swirling in the crush and chaos, like Betelgeuse, on the verge of explosion.  i can feel the night creep in and saturate the familiarity of my furnishings and turning them into oddities and unrecognisable shapes.  all is quiet. the flickering street light, right outside my window, casts shadows across the walls and ceiling; just as my mind casts aspersions as to what this new year, 2017, will bring.  this new year is barely four hours old and already i am judging her and making assumptions.

[why do we do that?]

it is these early hours of a new year that bring a manic panic and wild sense of urgency.

[calm… focus on that voice, Kathryn…]

 through my open window, i see that the stars are still in their correct places – no need for adjustment; the sea continues to roll in and out just as it did in the old year. another night of constant tides, and glad tidings. the still and almost silent night is punctuated by the odd yelp or peal of laughter from drunks as they stagger home like the walking wounded… or the waking dead.  the last of the NYE party people.  all i can hear now is the gentle of hum of distant traffic, the drone of the self-hypnotist’s voice and the yelp of an urban fox.  the blackness of the sky, like a shark’s eye, is murky in my blindness.  the walls of this chamber are illuminated by that lonely failing street lamp outside, casting sparks like a beacon of hope for the lost, the lonely and the fucked up.

Alf, my cat lies, sprawled by my side, on his back with his furry flank exposed in complete trust.  on occasion, he stretches out his paw and pads gently at my hand. no claws. just a tender acknowledgement of our mutual affection.  i lean in and kiss his stomach. he does not flinch nor fight.  he just sighs, softly.  in this light, he looks as though he may be smiling.

i lay back beneath the blanket of night and close my eyes.

[wtf?!]

there is no colour in the desert. no colour and no sun.  only a clock, where the sun once hung, high in a sky that once was blue.  now everything is monochrome.

with hands on hips, parched lips and bare feet, i look around me. the air is strange.  where am i?  am i still on Earth? the soft, warm breeze whips up a fine salty dust and carries it across the desert valley floor.  the sky is vast and humbling.  large white clouds billow and gather pace.  the breeze sucks them together.  i watch, in awe, as they amass and form a canopy up and beyond me.  why there is no colour is beyond me.  the sky is black.  the clouds continue to change shape and quicken, as if to summon uncertainty.  this reality is in time-lapse.  everything is moving fast, it is only i who remains still.  the clock’s long arms and broken hands spin around and around and around, faster, faster, faster… day becomes night becomes day.  clouds continue to feed my imagination with the flight of dragon-like formations.  what does this mean?   and i am thirsty.  i am so thirsty.

dawn breaks and the clock disappears.  a new sun begins to rise, feverish, in a purple sky.  in time-lapse, shadows lengthen and spread across the desert floor.  i feel the sun warm my skin and realise i am more than thirsty.

for water?

or knowledge?

with this new sun, comes a new dimension.  i look to my right and there is an office. an office with a door but no walls; an office with a desk and chair, a chaise-longue and standard lamp, but no ceiling. on the desk there is an aspidistra, a tall glass of water and a notepad and pencil.  they are placed in position, with near poetic precision, by a wiry and bent old man in a dark grey polyester suit.  his hair is wild; long and grey and his beard is unfurled before him, like a long and winding road.  sensing my presence, he turns to me and fixes himself, pulling down his sleeves, straightening his tie and hurriedly brushing off one or two loose hairs and specks of dandruff from his sloping shoulders.

standing upright,  i see that he is a tall and thin man with a large bony nose and sunken cheekbones.  his round steel-framed spectacles hang off the end of his nose. the lenses are thick yellow and make his eyes look cartoon-like and massively oversized for his gaunt face.  he beckons to me, and gestures to me to recline on the brown chaise-longue.  and so, i do…

the man takes the glass of water and drinks it all down.  my lips are parched and i feel dry.  thirsty.  for water, and for knowledge?  but what of that?

he tells me to look up at the hole in the sky. i relax in the chaise-longue, nestling into its comfort and warmth, and look up at the sky.  he is correct. there is a hole in the sky.  a small puncture wound. i focus on its torn edges as if it were ragged wallpaper and begin to imagine what i would see if i were to continue peeling it away.  what would i expose?  what would i find behind this beautiful illusion.

the man stands over me. he smells like paper.  he then, silently, anoints my forehead with oil, fragrant like turquoise.  i feel myself levitate. his fingers connect with my soul and i feel a stream of information ‘download’ from his fingertips through my pineal gland and down into my solar plexus.

i feel tethered to his knowledge and yet, strangely, free.  suddenly, i am no longer thirsty and i find myself crying at the beauty and simplicity of it all.

he tells me all about the birth of the universe. he explains the many paradoxes and paradigms that have both puzzled and defined us.  he tells me all the secrets: he shows me star maps, new colours, code… he tells me the truth about ‘God’.  he explains the matrices of our existence, and our co-existences in the universes of our past, present and future lives.  he explains why. he explains how.

he instructs me not to tell anyone about what he has shared with me.  there are many forces in existence, he tells me.

he tells me there is much to learn.

he tells me that the human race will not be on this earth in 500 years.

the old man then, taking my hands, leads me into a mirrored-glass pyramid.  inside, he claps his hands, like a flamenco dancer, and a holographic screen appears. immediately, it scrolls through hundreds of names of other human beings, from all over the world.  it is a barrage of information. hundreds of faces flash before my eyes.  instantly i look for familiar faces… my own face, my lover’s face, my mother, my friends…

the old man stands in front of me, commanding my full attention and tells me that in exchange for my newfound knowledge i must make an offering.

as the names of these humans scroll across thin air in front of me, he tells me that i must select 5 human beings to die.

take your time, he says.  choose wisely

the urgency in his voice, stokes my morbid curiosity and i ask him why.

why?  i say, as i scroll through the names and faces of many, many humans. ordinary humans, with ordinary lives.

you will not know any of these people, he says, but choose carefully as these people are all, to some degree, intrinsic to your very own existence.  what fate you decide for them will shape who you are today, tomorrow and who you were yesterday… choose wisely, or you may cease to exist.

 

the human mind is an unfathomable entity but i guess the lesson here, in this dream, is: while it is great to have a thirst for knowledge, know this: with great knowledge comes great responsibility.

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2017

i awoke from this lucid dream wishing i could recall the secrets i was told.  it was all too real, but perhaps i am not ready…  perhaps we humans are not ready to know the absolute truth…

 

 

 

 

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a psalm for the loveless

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there is comfort in clean sheets and the promise of “a good night’s sleep”. the allure of cool, crisp cotton beckons. the black ink of night fuels my scribe as i scratch across cheap paper in the dim of my lonely room. writing a song, in the dark, with a 5-string guitar, is cathartic. but there are too many distractions. my thoughts resolve back to the dead fox cub on the Standing Stanes Road and i sob,  my arms wrapped around Julio*,  my shoulders shaking. outside, the street lights shine like beacons for breaking hearts, insomniacs, poets and moths. someone is yelling. God knows what, but it’s 4.42am and the streets are already wet. the atonal hum of summer rain sounds like a song for the hopeless or a psalm for the loveless. a burgeoning hope, that tomorrow will be a brighter day.  the sea sounds so far away; weak, and diluted by this new precipitation. this time of calm is stirred by an itch in my [open] left palm. and, a ringing in my ears breaks my thoughts in Fmaj7.  i play along.  words fold and unfold and float by me, like soggy paper boats in my own sea of rambling.  i lay down and strum. sleep will come, easily.  songs often manifest in my dreams. there are six planets on their rise, elliptical. they are all visible with the naked eye, if you know where to look.  i close my eyes, put down the pen and close my book.  i hold on tight to Julio, in the absurd hope that he will sing me to sleep, as i pluck strings in harmony with the gentle peal of the wind chime above my head, as the palest breeze waxes lyrical.

[i don’t remember falling asleep, but i guess i must’ve………………….]

5 hours later, i find myself awake and Julio still asleep on the bed beside me.  quiet. there is paper and guitar picks everywhere.  my thoughts resolve to my lover, along the coast; i can still smell his scent in the tangled mess of my hair.

 

 

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

-for Robert – with you, i never feel loveless. i love you, like i was born to.

Hollywould, if she could

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cheap tinsel and smog – is all that you are. a cityful of fake folk and folklore; of deplorable schism and schizophrenic notion. Ah… Hollywould… if she could.
she’s a whoredom. she is like a box of adders; a modern-day Medusa; a mother with viper womb and crooked fangs.
Hollywould – the painted piranha; a fickledom where unforgiven forgotten pariah see only what they wanna.
blinding,
binding
like a cursed spell. look out, boys! she will poison your well being, and cheapen your aspirations.
she will deliver another suckerpunch, a blow below the belt, crushing the dreams of stardom of each new city-dweller.
watch your step.
wow… she’s something else!
a knock-out with glass jaw but she will always be the first to throw.
she’s a fault line but no great shakes. beneath the mask it’s, clearly, all fake. like the mountains she makes; and struggles, self-baked, of tremendous tremor.
[yawn…!]

“are those freckles real or are they melanin implants?”

[oh jesus…]

’tis becoming a seismic bore: predictable, needling or
just needy, like that waitress on a 16 hour shift.
Hollywould, if she could, for a cuntful of tips.
oh see how she is gifted – with envy-green eyes and marshmallow lips. Oh how those breasts, augmented, uplift.
and how that mouth can swear and prey.
that mouth…
Oh that pretty mouth and its infamy. it spews, spills and thrills; what’s it to be? spit or swallow?
guzzle ’til full, or remain forever hollow.
she’s the lying breath of the dying, or maybe she is just like our dying star, or a vagrant on the casting couch.
she will play you, work you – she’s no slouch.
is she fashionably contradictory or just prettily vacant?
and so it goes on – irrefutably blatant.
from upbeat to down beat – to a dead heat in heartbeat
and hysteria. with no pretty flowers downtown to adorn her
– only painted thorns, all shorn and forlorn there.
a plastic rose in a plastic surgeon’s clinic, its artificiality, leeching – its cheap scent and gaud leaves them nauseous and retching.
while the artist outside, on the kerb, is sketching.
Oh Hollywould – is a hall of mirror and delusion.
in a violent reality of wild superficiality, she thrives on and jives with collision and war.
warring, wearing and wearing thin, wearing down.
oh Hollywould – a dumb little clown; a piss-stinking parody of a circus town.
attention-seeking, she swings to and fro; a trapeze, a trap… she’ll cum and she’ll go.
fickle, sickle, scythe, and sick.
calculating and heartless, with a swinging brick.
Oh Hollywould, if she could, of that i am sure – cast her aspersions, as she walks out the door, with precision
like a whaler’s harpoon, direct and damaging in her oblivious lampoon.
Queen of the Damned, or  just damned Drama Queen.
“do as i say
or i’ll scream and i’ll scream…!”
and she will, ’till you’re down upon wounded knee;
she will have you jump through hoops of blowjobs and fire, ’til you please
or appease or get stuck in her mire.
one thing for sure…

… this is no town for a child.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

cafe insomnia

cafe insomnia

where do you go
in the daytime,
when shadows are short
where d’you hide?
i know you are out there
somewhere…
waiting…
just biding your time.
are you watching
when i’m ordering coffee,
your bitterness stronger
than mine?
are you there when i slip underwater,
holding me ransom with rhyme?
when i lay
on the couch, with my guitar,
do you hope that i break
a string?
you choke on my neck
like a capo.
God, you must hate it
when i start to sing.
but it’s the smallest of hours
that you savour.
when shadows bleed into the night.
i acknowledge you in bed beside me,
your cursed cold-handed humour,
as i struggle to just stay alive.

(c) Kat McDonald

– writers’ block exercise: a 10 minute poem about any chosen subject. last night’s subject was ‘insomnia’ – equal parts curse & gift.

did i take the yellow pill, or the pink?

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i/

a harlequin bows to greets me, backstage. with one graceful and balletic movement, he offers me his gloved right hand. a hand with six fingers. i take his hand, and let him lead me down a violet-scented corridor with forty doors into the deepest realm of my subconscious.

where the fuck am i?

the air is fragrant and warm on my bare legs, as i am wearing nothing but a simple white shirt. my breath echoes around the cathedral vaults of my mind. in the temporal lobe, a blue ginger candle burns bright; its tiny flame licks itself clean, casting off enormous and wondrous shadows across the triforium of my inner vision, a stained-glass gallery of memories – old and new.

in the centre, there lies a bed. a bed adorned with silky smooth chocolate sheets. i slip into its creamy coolness. the harlequin whispers:

“this is where i leave you… what happens now is your doing.” as he hands me an emerald ring.

he takes four steps back, bows, without averting his gaze, and disappears into the inky darkness.

ii/

the emerald ring burns as bright and exquisite as fire in zero gravity.  i watch, in shock and awe, as it melts into the skin.  lying on my back, gazing up at the ornate ceiling, it is then i remember…  the ceiling depicts enchanting scenes of woodland creatures, like the wallpaper i had in the bedroom of my childhood. exactly like that. i am captivated.

all of my six senses spin out of control as my mind pixelates and begins to break apart, crumbling. it is quite humbling.  i am a fractal; spiralling out of control but the sensations are beautiful.  i close my eyes and drift in arms of the Chaos. Chaos is my mother.

oh mother. i came from inside you.  her voice, soft and low, is soothing. she is manic. she tells me how she never enjoyed sex.  i am confused. how did i come to be, if not borne out of ecstasy?  heavy and shaken, i awaken.

the unmistakable feeling of fresh air on my face stirs me from my bleak reverie and i find myself, in a white linen bed, upon an Alpine mountainside. the air is white. i feel light as light. there are four goats, standing, staring at me. they are chewing, ruminating on something… i stare back. the black goat, with large twisted horns, speaks to me:

“you seek answers” he bleats. “you are inside you…”

iii/

with a jolt i find myself on the ceiling of a round chamber, looking down at a pack of wild painted dogs. they scavenge and scrape. they wait for me to fall so they can pull me apart and feast on bone and gristle. they whimper and simper. their mouths, foaming. their teeth, bared. snarling, their eyes burn into me.

a beautiful young boy, of eleven years, walks into the room through the wall and picks up a red violin. he begins to play. the wild painted dogs become placid, docile; turning and turning twice before settling down. the music is beguiling and i find myself dancing.

the harlequin reappears and throws me a ball of fire. i catch it in my left hand and rub my palms together.  with two fingers, i smear the ash and grease across my face, like war paint. i am wild, like those painted dogs. he throws me another. the flames cannot hurt me because i am a child of fire. Inferno is my father.

iv/

punch-drunk and bewildered, like a wildebeast with a lionness upon its back with her mouth clamped on the jugular, i clutch my throat. i am bleeding. i have been bitten. smitten with eternal life. who is this beautiful creature, in turquoise velvet? i have been turned and returned to this strange and promised land. he holds me, in the palm of his hand. he is fair and fey. i look into the galaxies of his turquoise eyes and see my own reflection. my throat is cut. the blood flows. a thick, red gloopy wine.

did i take the yellow pill, or the pink?

i frantically chase that memory but it flickers and rolls into the static, like an image on an old cathode ray television set, blinking and on the brink of its own obsoletion.

my mind is awash with bizarre and bric-a-brac.

the violinist suddenly stops playing. he lays down his red violin and tells to me to:

“run: the wild dogs will smell the blood.”

and so, i run.

i run into a beautiful emerald-green ocean, disappearing beneath the ninth wave… returning to my self.


image & words (c) Kat McDonald 2016

– the mind is a wonderful entity.

queer

barefoot, in a mere whisper of a shift dress, i find myself wandering along an endless empty road. a road that stretches out, like an unfurling roll of film, for as far as the eye can see. it is the only road and it cuts through the barren landscape i find myself immersed in. all is still. the silence is deafening. the hills, lonely and watching, roll off unto the horizon. the trees, stripped bare, stand brittle and from where i stand, they resemble inky-black cut-outs from some vintage animation. the sky is purple and there are very few clouds;  yet, although it is warm, a shifting breeze bristles and stirs me – causing goosebumps to rise upon my bare arms.

“where are we?” i say.

in the suffocating silence, my voice seems to boom and echo all around.

“we are here…” my lover says.  i listen to his voice as it slowly dimishes and decays into the clay hills.  the air feels empty.  only he and i exist here, in this two-dimensional sketch of a world. it is a queer reality.

i turn to him and take his hands. the breeze toys with his hair. we kiss for what seems like eternity as this reality shifts, like time-lapse cinematography. we kiss for thirty thousand sunrises and moonsets. we kiss through a blurred opus of seasons that even the greatest concert pianists’ fingers could not fathom nor play. through the prickles of March and her petty wars; the scorch of Augustus’ summer tirade of circuses and circumventions; through the teasing and taunts of October and, like the duality of Janus himself, we kiss on through, facing future and past simultaneously.

all this, in an instant. a flash.

i look at he, he looks at me. we are ourselves mirrored within mirrors of mirth and melancholia. this landscape holds no distraction. we are alone here.  we walk, from our hearts, knowing this land as if retracing our footsteps from earlier visits, and visitations.

we walk.

we walk.

we walk.

we walk along these unfurled films of both archive and future cuts.

we stop, on the crest of a hill, to admire the view. ’tis beautiful. a beauty of which we have never seen. tangerine clouds hanging loose upon a turquoise sky. in the distance, the sea seems to stutter and splash.
the sun has descended and night is waiting, stage left, to make her dramatic entrance. the air smells of lavender.

we look around us and run… run into the thick of the lavender fields that now surround us.

we run.
run. run. run. run. run.

we run…

giddy in its fragrance, we stumble upon a clearing where a large circle of freshly turned soil – as pure and white as talcum powder – feels cool and soft beneath our naked feet. in the clearing stands a tall and grand grandfather clock. its ticking seems wise and constant, like a beating heart or metronome.  we rest upon a plaid mattress and stretch out, like starfish.

like children, we lie on our backs.  we stare up into the sky.  we reach up and grapple for the fruit clouds slung tantalisingly low in the sky. we pull off and pick at the puffs of tangerine cloud, as if we were plucking a distant childhood memory of spun sugar cotton candy. it tastes divine. exotic. sweet, like Chinese mandarins.

“we must keep moving…” he says, now standing, facing south west.

we continue on our journey as night enters the stage behind us. we hear her deserved applause and accolade fade off into the distance. she is a star.   still… there will be many more stars and nights like this.

we walk.

we walk.

we walk.

we walk along these unfurled films of both archive and future cuts. fascinated. fascinated by the world we have created. strange structures line the road ahead, down to the ocean’s edge. our edge of reason.

what are they? they look like old stave churches but they are neither old -nor wooden. they are odd. they are gleaming, like a 1950s American refrigerator. flat colour and polished chrome. they stand tall and odd, like pods planted or placed for some purpose…  i walk up to the nearest stave pod. it is beautiful. it is bright azure and chrome. i see my own distorted reflection in its shiny bowed limbs.  i see my lover stand behind me; his eyes, an equal blue, beam back.

“open the door” he says.

together, we push open the heavy door and find ourselves within its cold clutches.

in complete awe and wonder, we explore its honeycomb centre. each cell is large enough to accommodate a soul.

“what is this place?” i wonder… running my hands inside the silken slopes of a split cell.

my lover turns to face me, and slips off my dress.  we slip inside the cell and make love.  its cool curved walls envelope and we seem to lose all sense of rightside up. outside as time moves at an impossible pace. once again, we are the sole constants in this seeming state of flux as the time-lapse reality continues to shift and splutter and spew out our path.  outside, i hear the great grandfather clock chime. the noise is deafening and

i awaken. 

startled, i look around me.  my lover sleeps deep, beneath the fur, naked beside me; the window is open and the softest breeze seems to breathe for us; soft shadows, gifts from the  moon, quietly settle against the back wall and watch us.
funny. i never thought of sleep as a spectator sport before, i think to myself.  i hear a soft ringing… Emin.  a ringing in my head.  a migraine?  too much caffeine or calamus?  it is then, i realise i can still see…

i remove my eyes and nestle into my lover’s back.

“come, we must keep walking…” he says, as our hands couple and clutch across his dreaming chest, as he leads the way.

 

 

words & image (c) Kat McDonald 2016

 

Sirius

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a cracked rib. a thorn in my side. [fuck!] seering pain. seeing stars. [don’t move, Kathryn… just close your eyes and breathe…]

i yearn for sleep. a sleep unbroken. the legs feel like sand, heavy; but head and hands are light as air.  the mind, coiled like a cobra in a basket. waiting. the imagination, untethered like a cloud, drifts eagerly above and beyond. the body, grounded, upon a bed of cotton and fur* but it may as well be a bed of nails. i cannot recall my last seven hour sleep. it has been weeks of dotted hours. the air i breathe is lilac to the touch.

prescription painkillers and a scribe are all i have in sight. they are all the entertainment i have tonight. this pain. driving me mad. but the visions are nice. my write hand, seemingly in zero-gravity, struggles to stay down upon the page. inside, i rage. i am invalid. the worst kind of invalid. i will bite. it is going to be the longest night. [you think this is trite, don’t you? fuck you!]

oranges illuminate the world outside. so pretty. the gentle hum of traffic in the distance is a not altogether unpleasant accompaniment to my own breathing. all is still.

i look up at Sirius with his head bowed; pining the death of his master, his starman.  [after all, all that is left are dying stars to illuminate this life… now that our brightest is gone]

“are you lonely?” i yell.

his voice is thin and white; but i hear him through my skin.

(c) Kat McDonald 2016

image: NASA, of course.

*faux, naturally…

 

sand-paper & seraphim

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i/

Pain.
her name is Pain

[for fuck’s sake!]

she, by any other name, would still remain
as ugly.
and she IS ugly.
desperately ugly.
she is a creep.
she is unwelcome.
despite my best effort to keep her
OUT
of my world, she
always
seems to find a way to creep
BACK
in and fuck
with me: meddle
with my mind, screw
up my plans, piss
on my parade
in her
USUAL
cuntish
way.
she is relentless.
she makes her presence
FELT
when i am at my happiest, my
most comfortable, my
most vulnerable, my
most…
or when i have
plans.
i am convinced
that she does
this
to seek attention, or
unsettle,
again.
and again,
and
again,
when i am alone
with
my
thoughts, and
almost every night it seems,
she SEEPS
back; back
into my consciousness.
sly, septic seraphim,
she is
a
BAD TRIP.
she turns,
and returns;
laughing at me,
mocking me,
like a barfly whore with her lips
around my lover’s cock…
Hell-bent
and bent out of shape.
her mouth like a ravenous beast.
Hell-bent on having.

[I HOPE YOU CHOKE…]
sly.
smiling. sweet.
sly
lies.
lies.
she finds
a way to be
there, in my mind
and in my bones…
conniving cunt.

it’s exhausting.

and she can be emotional-
like a scorned
LOVER or a jealous ex-girlfriend,
all tragic and bitter, to play
the “i’m gonna fuck with you”
card.
she returns when i least expect it.
and return
she does,
like a tragic memory,
she haunts me and
taunts me
and calls me delusional;
or she’ll hit me
like
a new bereavement;
tearing me apart
and
GRINDING my
BONES.
and oh how she wants those bones.
those bones.
i see her: grinding her pelvis
trying to seduce.
sucking on fingers,
touching, twirling hair,
saying all the right things
and laughing, as appropriate.

she wants those bones.
those bones. my bones.
the ones i love
and cherish.
the ones i cling to.
the ones only i
should
cling
to.

[FUCK OFF!]

but with one hit, i can silence her.

ii/

and so
i cave.
i take THREE PILLS
and nestle
beneath
the furry blanket
of self-medication.
i take three pills and allow
my cerebral cortex
to drive.
drive me insane.

i can hear the sea.

a candle flickers,
in the corner of my room,
and shadows spill
and twirl
and dance their
odd languid
little dance around the room,
to the music of the
sea.

a sea of thoughts.
a sea of words.
a sea of worths.

automatic writing.
i hold pen to pad
and
let my incoherent musings
spill and twirl
out onto the paper.

the pen makes a scratchy sound.
am i writing on sand paper?

what visions will come, if any?

i need to see so
i close my eyes.

in my mind’s eye, i wipe
the window, in hope
of a clearer view
but… PAIN, again,
she laughs in my face.
her mouth, wide
enough to accommodate my fist.
she is a painted harlot, a whore.
[FUCK RIGHT OFF!]
brain, give me something pretty
to distract.
nothing.
i search the dark and dimming
light for pattern;
sand-SHAPES; for
fucks’ sakes and
familiarities…
nothing.

i sigh.
i weigh the sky.
i feel it bear down on me.
such a crushing weight.
like a kick to the stomach
from a crazy mare.
a nightmare.

i can still hear the sea.

so i listen to her. her voice is soft
and low.
she sounds exhausted.
empathy.
what if…?

what if she were to just… stop??

STOP.

 

what if all the tides
of all the world’s oceans were to
rebel
against the push and the pull?
what would become of
us,
in the throes of
such mutiny?

iii/

once upon a time
there lived a MOMENT.
a beautiful moment of clarity.
she was called Epiphany.
one day,
she took a tumble
and stumbled
upon
the meaning of life.
she saw it all.
everything.
so clear;
everything.
so simple.
Rumour has it, she stood
at the very edge of the Universe
and that she actually skated
on the fabric
of the space-time
continuum.
she never speaks of it, but
she was
overwhelmed with
BLISS
and bathed in golden light.

she was shown all existence.

she saw, in particles
and quanta,
the past, the present and the future
of all
existence.
she was taught how
it
all pieced together
and, with the nascent
spongiform curiosity of
a newborn,
she watched everything unfold,
fold and unfold.
a story was told.
she saw her own birth.
she witnessed her own death.
simultaneously.
in the blink
of an eye.

she was
unafraid.
she saw
distant memories,
dissonant and
beyond reach.
she felt the pang
of past grieving.
she watched the birth
of the Universe, our Universe;
and other
Universes.

she held an
embryonic Earth
in her hands
and saw how everything
– all pasts, presents and futures –
are connected; and
over-lapping,
flapping
and floundering.
where?
there…!

[just there… like a glass of water for a thirsty ocean – just beyond reach.]

 

iv/

human life.
rancid.

where did we go wrong?

we assume. we skull-fuck each other with our egos, our super-egos and our pushed asides.
we are foolhardy and arrogant.
crass,
and myopic.
predictably acidic,
we are lame
and dull.
our vanity; unquantifiable.
“do you see me?”
“are you watching?”
“attention without intention”
we flirt.
cause and effect.
who gives a fuck about the butterflies
and their repercussive wings?
we are dirt.

truth?

oh it will out. it always does.

where is home? who will take me there?

i don’t believe in angels.

we are but a speck of dirt on something big… bigger than all of us…

something bigger than any one of us
can comprehend with our little brains.

we are ridiculous.

it would seem
we have a lust
for the meaningless,
meaning thus –
we could have more,
but…

we humans are stupid
despite our brilliance.

as pioneers, inventors, artists and thinkers
yes! they can all CREATE
but! they are
masters of destruction.

humans kill.
it’s what they do.
it’s what they do best.
humans kill all that is beautiful.

why do we do that?

i spoke with Epiphany about this.
we talked all night;
until Dawn
told me
that humans will never
fully evolve or
reach their full potential because
they will be
EXTINCT long before
this is realised.

she showed me a DIFFERENT
Universe; a Universe
where maximum human potential
had
been realised.

she showed me a Universe
so beautiful;
so completely unbroken
that it broke my
heart.

v/

with tingling hands, i enter the dream.
is it a dream?
i feel awake.
more awakened than i will ever be.

i turn onto my side, squeeze my eyes shut, and nestle into the Amur tiger that sleeps by my side. i breathe in his scent and open my eyes. with telepathic fingers, i can see his chest fall and rise with sleep. i trace his striped flank. i stroke his face. [those jaws…] he could CRUSH my head, like a fucking watermelon. such powerful jaws. yet he chooses not to. here he lies, by my side, with a paw as large as a guitar, heavy on my hipbone. he is my animus, my guardian.

my protector.

vi/

and where is
MOON tonight?

SKY lied.
Sky told me of TWO MOONS
and now there are none?

Sky looked back at me
all dark
and empty;
wombless
and desolate.

what has become of her
and her
nubility?
Moon must be out there
somewhere.
what will become of her
or her sisters?
her role-models and
ladies in waiting?
her unborn daughters?

Mother Moon,
she must be out there
somewhere…
cut adrift.
like a lost balloon,
abandoned by
a spoilt sulk of a child.

maybe…

maybe Moon is
the spoilt sulk of a child?
skulking off somewhere,
hiding, and hiding her humility
in the folds of Sky’s skirts;
lost amid the
pleats of that inky
black velvet;
sulking,
because Oceans no longer
want to play with her.

vii/

i remember what Dawn showed me.

i remember space.
the vastness of space.
the immeasurable amount
of space.

i remember the reality of seeing
for the first time.
a pin-prick.
eyes smarting,
or are they tears of joy.
what have i just been witness to?
a birth?
the birth?
the birth of the Universe.

the beginning of the end?
i remember holding a newborn Earth
in my fumbling clay hands;
the realisation;
the dawning of
the fragility
of
us.

single-mindedly, singlehandedly;
we will, ultimately,
be the demise
of us.

our futures will lay
in fragments
and frayed filaments of fiction
and fable as
our furrows unfold.
fate, feverish fashions
furtively unfurl.

we have become slaves
to our selves;
to
Superficiality and whatever
that whore brings to the party;
she is but a Christmas jingle.
except,
she doesn’t rock.

she is a sexually-transmitted disease.

humans are pathogens.
humans are germs.
humans are disgusting.
dirty specks of dust and
mould to blight
the fabric of our own existence
and existentialisms.

no seraphim to guide us.

there are no angels.  there is no home.

we sully it
dirty it
maim it
kill it
pervert it.
cut it.
cull it.
shoot it.
torture it.
buy it.
improve it.
rape it.
choke on it.
try to defy it.
try to deny it.
shake it.
break it.
make it.
force it.
coerce it.
disable it.

engage.

lick it.
suck it.
fuck it.
kiss it.
kiss it better?
too late.

we bend it, like a lie. colour it white.
pretend it.
pretend it never happened it.
distend it.

lie about it. in the dark. can you live with it? can you live without it?

recoil.
cry about it.
illuminate it.
ruminate it.

double it.
decouple it.

sell it.
condone it.
provoke it.
promote it.

make it a cult
or cultivate it.

mock it.
dock it.
doctor it.

a Doctorate.
rate it.
abate it.
corroborate it.

syllables
in syllabus

salubrious symbols
and drums.
thumbs up.

finger it.
powder it.

blow it up.
or just blow it.

snort it.
inject it.
ingest it.

and that’s just it.

it’s fake.
fake it.

guilt-free, fat free, duty free

when all is said and done, and the pleasure of pain breaks, and all is lost- no dogs or angels to take you home. this body was home.  but home is gone.  ask yourself:

how was it for you?
do you feel enriched?

was it good?
was it the fuck of the Century?

[FUCK OFF!]

just open your fucking eyes.

looking back, in that blink of an eye, was it worth it?

IMG_4018
words & images: (c) Kat McDonald Photography 2015

sweet codeine

codeine

Oh codeine. you are an evil mistress. you are a cold-hearted, unfeeling, temptress… you prey upon my vulnerability, my susceptibility – yet you are exquisite.

to feel, or not to feel, that choice is mine. but i am enslaved by you, and your charms. i am your whore.

with you, it’s all too easy: not to feel, not to care.

when i am with you, i succumb to your effortless ability to soothe my pain. i feel myself falling, flailing, in your soft yielding arms.

Bitch!

you won’t let me go. you are a possessive and obsessive lover. jealousy beyond control.
you won’t let me go. you have me in your clutches.

you render me numb, in full submission to your dominatrix ways and wiles.

Oh codeine. sweet codeine, you colour my dreams.

sometimes i find myself floating out over the sea, looking down upon your circling gulls and oil-tankers; other times i find myself swimming in an underground lake where the water is pink and the cavernous ceiling rises, infinitely, above me like a cathedral. every sigh echoes like angels’ voices; every splash makes concentric patterns that ring out like chimes from a bell, with crystal clarity and unfathomable beauty.

with you, i no longer know reality like i used to. you have shown me new realities, and they are beautiful.

take me, please… i know i shouldn’t but… you can be so sweet…

in my reverie, i opened my eyes and, the blinds at my bedroom window, the world outside was painted red. not just any shade of red, bright arterial red. everything and everyone was red: the sky, the trees, the sea, the birds, the oil-tankers, the traffic, the houses and high-rises… everything was red.

everything. even NYC.

alas, sweet codeine, with you, i never know where you will take me: out on a limb, out on a ledge. and over.

and it is all too beautiful. but too easy. so i must leave you.

i hope we never meet again. you are a dangerous beauty.

my head aches. my skin is crawling. i sense you. you have me in your crosshair.

you are addictive, my love, but i’m onto you.

goodbye, sweet codeine.

’twas fun…

(c) Kat McDonald 2015 – image found on Instagram @nois9

– cracked ribs and codeine: a strange, but true, story.

STARDATE – 20064.3

WOW! i have, since i was a child, held a DEEP fascination with outer space and sci-fi books and movies and TV series… Star Trek the Next Generation being one of my absolute loves in this genre.

this entry here, STARDATE 20064.3, is an episode from a DARKER TREK… it is compelling fan fiction. It is dark and twisted and begs many burgeoning questions about life, about the human mind and life beyond the realms we will never fully comprehend in our infinite universe.

i urge you to go and immerse yourself in this series… make a cuppa coffee, go right back to the start and lose yourself in ‘The Void’.

i am slightly biased, as the writer is my lover and fellow pilgrim, but i can guarantee if you like sci-fi and you like Star Trek and its many incarnations then you will enjoy this series and, like me and some others, you will look forward to Tuesdays – when the next episode is published.

so please – go read – go show some love to a very talented screenwriter and poet. you will not be disappointed!

STARDATE – 20064.3.