beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

30.6.05

SHARK ATTACK

(you can click the title!)

my hands smell of cigarettes and fake tan.
we walked, i walked, with a bottle of chocolate milk and red brand. a huge coat. i have only slept ten hours over the past, 2 or 3 nights. so any time you sit me still for longer than, oh, ten minutes, i am falling asleep on the sofa and in the car and in maths exams and on roxanne. i wake up and my eyes are stuck together it feels like my eyelashes are made from lead or something heavier or something.
VAGABOND.
MAN so i had my prom last night and it went really fast and a lot of people huffed all my precious helium helium helium gas or spiking their punch. it was hot. the dj's son put a hand on my shoulder to help me. tommy wore a hat and why must he always look so good. one of my favourite smells in the whole wide world is smoke from smoke machines.
my knee is breaking and every muscle in my leg is wrong and aching and makingmy leg feel like a bottle.
there is a frog sitting next to me and he is about. 7 millimetres long.

i am really very very utterly confused today.
WANT TO LISTEN TO BIFFY AND ACONITE THRILL WANT THE SUN TO SHINE REDLY IN THE EVENING MAKING THE ORANGE IN MY HAIR SHINE THROUGH AND TEETER IN DASHES LIKE HYPHENS ON A TYPEWRITER WANT TO NOT FEEL SICK WANT IT TO NOT SMELL OF SOUP WANT TO FEEL RESTED WANT TO SEE YOUR SQUARE SMILE WANT TO BE SICK want to slam dunkit like shaquille OH neale wicked wreckin baby i ROCK THAT TEST TOOB BABEY TAKE IT COS I GOT

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28.6.05

POSTCRIPT

p.s. i never meant oh my god as in masturbation
i meant oh my god as in despair.

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boom. shaka. lacka.

i am currently interested in pairings.

here are some:
novacaine and ballet shoes.
germolene and fabs.

sunburn and the smell of new film. outside is a tree which is half red and half green and it shines and shines and shines and shines. the sky is lilac.

man. sometimes. sometimes it is okay. sometimes i love the salty smell of skin like wet sand against my bedsheets. sometimes playing tambourine is SO FUCKING GOOD IT IS LIKE THE ONLY THING IN YOUR MIND AND IT FEELS SO FUCKING GOOD.
WHAT ARE THE OPPOSITES OF SO MANY WORDS AND WHY CAN I NO LONGER FIND THE RIGHT ONES. SOMETIMES ITS SO FUCKING GOOD REMEMBERING THE PAST. SOMETIMES ITS SO SO SO GOOD NO TO THINK. SOMETIMES IT IS SO NICE TO LEAVE YOUR BED IN YOUR PANTS AND TAKE FOREVER TO TAKE THEM OFF AND START AGAIN AND GET DRESSED WHEN YOUR HAIR IS ALL CWURLY. I MEAN CWURLY YOU KNOW WHAT I MEAN. SOMETIMES ITS SO
FUCKING
NICE
TO THINK OF BLUE SKIES AND REMEMBER YOU ARE HAPPY. AND THAT MAYBE
JUST MAYBE
THE TIMES WHEN YOU ARENT
ARE JUST LIKE: EGG WHITES, CRUSTS, ICE CREAM CONES, OUTSIDES OF PENGUIN BISCUITS.

SOMETIMES. IT JUST IS SO FUCKING NICE. sometimes to take pleasure in the BOOM of life is fucking great.

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24.6.05

OH FAHK BLAD

LOST: ONE POLICE HAT, BLUE. ONE PAIR OF AVIATOR SUNGLASSES, BROWN. ONE GUN, PLASTIC. BITS OF LEG, BLEEDY.
i got so drunk

that i didnt mind when a boy in a corset kissed me

even though i really like someone else

i took speed

i had to make myself be sick

my friends put me in my pyjamas and i completed this morning in trance

ALSO:
i made a speech in front of my year and
people love me.

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20.6.05

a secret.

when i am sad, sometimes i think of manatees.

they are so melancholic. their faces look they are permanently saying this word, lamenting it to the water.
i think of them as boxes or shoes cast in blubbery bandages of falling clay.
sometimes when i am sad, i long to touch them. to push my fingertips into their skin so it left five soft indents either side of its body, like a cold plasticine - not cold - tepid. like they are being left in the sun, that comfortable kind of sad you keep just inside your cuff incase things really hurt. warm coca-cola without the fizz.
they'd feel like a thousand tiny lines of running fabric under water or the dessicated infinitely soft algae in your fishtank.

you're a manatee.

this is you.

you make me sad
but you make me hurt less.

guess your number and i'll guess mine.

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18.6.05

true story

butters.
is the best slang word i've heard so far.

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17.6.05

god, youre brother is annoying.

so i think the whole, future thing, is okay.
i walked down a street with spent blossom trees, re-fantasizing a phone conversation for at least the second time.

do you see the oak tree to your left? -- and here there is a pause between 'your' and 'left'. during this pause i have pinched my forefinger and thumb on each hand and made a movement as i process which side of you the tree is on and which hand i write with.

i'm so shit with directions i tell you and you know because you laugh during the pause. here is another thing that happens during the pause.

during the pause you also might notice where i am leading you, seeing it precisely infront of you, seeing me hiding behind the bamboo and lying on the grass. you might not notice.
keep going, i say with tease in my voice like sweet butter and i hear you walk. your breaths come out every time you plant your black shoes which i know you'll be wearing on the pavement. your breaths have the tone of someone who is pretending to be annoyed or bemused but youre smiling.
in the pause some sparrows - god don't sparrows have the most thoughtless ugly song, its like CARCARARACARAR and it sounds exactly like the colour of their bellies - are flying into a hole in a roof on a house under the sun. the sun is afternoon sun, where is is deeply hot before everyone starts to barbeque.
the sun is the nearly five o clock sun.

you notice the end of the street sign is broken off and you notice where the pavement is buckled from the roots of ornamental cherry trees. it reminds you of the buckled pavement where you live which is littered with the hundred count of spent cherries from a tree over the wall, and how you avoided standing on them that morning because of the macarbe image of them splitting in slow motion with juice and obscene ripeness underneath your shoes.

okay, you say. all you say is okay and you laugh. i can see the laughs coming from you in square bubbles like your square eyes and your square jaw and your square mouth. sometimes you say fuck off and god.
it is nice because everyone knows we are pretending and everyone knows what it reminds you of and only i know it reminds me of a slice cut into a thick orange skin when we kissed.

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14.6.05

excerpts from academia [sic]

Image hosted by Photobucket.com

the sky was a beach of spiders that twinkle blind.
i wore a cotton dress
as you can see, i've you've been on my mind alot lately. you cant run as fast as me oh no, media, mmmedia, how many faces? me in a cotton dress with a ribbon to my knee. you cant bend in half like i can; you cant run as fast as me.
the narcissist lies in a bed of milk, betwixt ruby slippers and felt animals that play and run and play, play, play.
i'm the burning best.
find the river (heart). francois. romeo and juillet. timetables? loser.
is it that i have changed? in the midsts of folding, origami, parentheses, scraped knees, lined paper, spring.
a phone flex is strangling bunnies. bunniesbunnies. glue spreaders smell of amyl nitrate and a fire alarm.
oh, oh gosh. fairground rides, alchohol. marshamallows.
i rubbed my skin and it peeled off in the shape of teeth-marks.
i saw the lines and then the margines, as i kept rubbing
and then i became paper.
and the world blew away.
messiahs baby, messiahs.mangos, panic buttons. missing letters and crossing-dots.
I AM ROB AND YOURE NOT.
au londres. doctor, doctor! penultimacy and basic instructions will be the death of videos and memories, my god.
my god.
kiss me guapo, beneath the tree of the periodic table. kiss me.
my god.
my god.
my god.

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13.6.05

a collection of items in a treasure box.

recline my neck back, a vertebrae at a time, unfurling like a spiral of a fern. i do this so my head dips into a square pool of warm light. i feel it envelope my face and eyes, everything turns glucose yellow inside a dough felt parcel. i shut my eyes, enjoying the sunlight, watching a red blanket spread before me, the reds and oranges mapping through dancing circles, blue spiders weaving coursing threads.
i think about things. i think about the colour green. about picnic blankets, you know; seersucker. i think about the shadows and ebbs of light from a glass of water on a windowsill. i think about how my hair matched my shirt, and my shirt matched my pants, and they matched nothing except my shirt which matched my hair. things move in squares and waltzing shimmery kaleidoscopes.

i own a dried foxglove flower and a black feather. i know they are in my house. i own them because they both belong in a moment of perfection. crying, i stepped from my door to look up, to see the flower drop from the plant and a falling feather reach the floor at the exact same moment, the exact precise same time. and in that moment, that one tiny moment, i swear perfection was infinite.

the moment spiralled on, long after i had picked both things up, long after even now. the one stuttering rope of perfection carries on. it is on its own line. no one will ever experience it again, but it keeps going. and i saw it. it was me.

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12.6.05

never think about me part d.

here are some things i know nothing about whatsoever:

the price of a prostitute.

chinese verb structure.

how compact discs work.

the production process of tinned mandarin segments.

where my blue tshirt has gone.

how much i am suddenly smiling.

if anyone could tell me anything about these subjects, or think about them a little, i'd be so appreaciative. thankyou for listening.

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10.6.05

never think about me part c.

it is pretty much incredible what people can do.
who the fuck discovered singing?
And then people went and made it completely incredible by adding every other thing they thought of, and made you feel stuff with singing. Which, is just talking with a tune. which is just changing the shape and distance of these litle invisible waves which come echoing and leaking from between our lips. Their lips. Whatever. but; man.

also. pictures. has anybody (in the whole history of anything) ever walked away from a piece of art feeling nothing? feeling the same as asleep. it is difficult to imagine nothing because my brain is wired such that everything links to something else. which for the most part is annoying because i can't talk straight about anything. its like, "beth listen to this song" and i am all:

this song sounds like this looks.
this song sounds like the smell of these.
this song sounds like that feeling you get when you look at those.

so sometimes that frustrates me. when i am talking to other people about things, they usually dont have the same parts of brain as me. i think ive only met two-and-a-half people who do.
so like even thinking of blank whiteness would have connotations of other things for me.
i wonder why that is?
i think probably brains are covered in bits of copper and bronze-coloured wire (and the brain is blue), and someone dropped mine in the bath.
and it went
PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING fsh PING psh FING psh FING
as the thoughts pulsed and coursed along the wires like fish.

the moral of today's story is i believe in the sanctity of life but minus the god part. i believe in spirituality minus the leg-crossing. i believe in divine inspiration minus all of the rules and specificaions.
i cant even start to get my broken brain to think about why i connect my eyes with my mouth and my mouth with my brain and my brain with my neck and my neck with my body and my body with my heart and my heart just sits there pathetically beating out boy's names and warnings.

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5.6.05

never think about me part b

man sometimes sad songs really fuck me over.
sometimes when youre sad they massage your sadness and they make you feel sort of okay again. sometimes when youre sad they make you feel 100000000000 times worse. but then you still think "hey i am sad i am going to listen to this sad song with pianos which is slow and builds up to a crescendo by which time i am probably crying". why the hell do we do that anyway?
is it because it makes you feel okay to be sad?
is it maybe because you feel alone otherwise. but really who wants to cry infront of a bunch of people. i only cry in bed because i dont want people asking what is wrong with me. and sometimes people say to this "oh, but i want to make you feel better! i dont know anyone who does that,"
and i'm all
i bet every single person in the world who you've never seen cry does that.
some people dont even cry. i know a girl who doesnt cry, she doesnt think about stuff that makes her cry. she thinks about big stuff and has secretly amazing poetry skills i remember finding, and she only has dreams about the end of the world and people killing each other.
there was this one song i listened to constantly at a time when i was really depressed the whole time.
i would just lie on the floor and try to cry louder than the music.
or sit on the floor or whatever.
some people cant cry. some people think it is completley strange to feel things from music, even "OH MAN this makes me want to dance"
this is why it fucks me over.
why do people want to go around listening to things which blend in to their moods until you cannot tell which is sadder, you or the song, and every part of the music the piano and his voice and the gaps fill you with so much despair
you cant even cry.

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never think about me.

when anthropologists dig up our bones in the future, no-one will know what the hell happened.
really teeth are just portions of bone which shoot up through your skin to chew food. and then there is that whole "english teeth thing". and teeth are pretty horrible.
but what about american teeth, man?
and they are frighteningly white and polished and tipped and laquered and stuff. those poor anthropologists won't know why the fuck they did that, and the bright-white unrealness of their teeth will shine in gloss contrast to the cream coloured skulls, and everyone will guess at what this was for. was it a ritual? they will ask school kids. was it body decoration, or did it serve a real purpose? they will ask in the museums.

what the fuck else.

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2.6.05

ohman

I LOVE YOU MORE THAN GOOGLE IMAGE SEARCH

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