beth motherfucking kirby.

b thang.

SHUTUP in my boudoir

28.6.07

dont you realise, dreams mean nothing

i am fond of making sweeping, groundbreakingly terse statements.
i like to sum up events, moods, relationships, bundle them into a nutshell and roast them for sale on the bank of a cold grey slice of river.
i always catch myself saying:
"you always"
"it always seems"
"everytime i"

or things like:
"i have never met anybody like you"
"i have never been in a relationship like this"

and especially the word "literally" i used this word every fucking day. literally, i am not joking fucking, what, do i read everything in a book. is everything a newspaper story, am i a journalist to my own life? why is everything so comfortable? so boring? where have i gone, where did i come from? what happened to me to make me like this? the sum total of about 3 actual things that have affected my life? the countless more fleeting inward struggles i inflict upon myself, for no reason, with no gain, with no cause?

sometimes, i want to laugh at you and your stupid massive problems.
sometimes, i just think your huge, heart-shatteringly life is fucking pathetic.
sometimes i want to shout at you, and scream that all these big fucking fanfare events that happened to you mean fuck all, they mean absolutely fuck ALL if you don't have any inner showers of sparks of disease and melancholy and suicide that you want to acknowledge.
sometimes i want to tell you that your dreams mean nothing, and laugh in your face like a rusty boat close to shore, spit on your trainers and say that no one cares what youre hiding because they never want to find it and they never want to know you because you, you simply don't want to know them.

and i will leave you on the concrete boardwalk, they grey blue sky bringing a bruise to the ice blue water, sprays leaping up and joining the blue air, crying with red around your eyes in rings and i will stare at you, staring at the floor, distance between us in the deafening wind and wonder, and wonder why i ever found mystery in someone like you.

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21.6.07

dreams

last night, i dreamt:

that i coughed up an entire mouthful of phlegm so sticky that when i spat the two-coughs worth cloud of shit into the sink some of it had harded like shards of bendy plastic and i had to wretch like morning sickness to feel free of it.

that i sat in a cafe with enormous ceilings and enormous chairs, and we ordeded food but i had to leave, and i was overcome with the feeling that i was abandoning my friend into the utter empty lonliness i feel when a friend goes home after staying the night; rainy days.

whilst i was sleeping, my face sticky with the creams and tinctures of girlhood, these images and guttural feelings of sleep flew in and out of my mind at appalling speed, the constant agon of sleep and reason waging in my warm little skull. whilst i lay, warm and despondent, my soft, hot body floating, i dreamt of these disgusting images, things which repeat in my mind as i cough over the kitchen sink.
things that circulate and surface in the inner soup of my brain over and over, like:

"human papilloma virus".
the feeling of tonguing the narrow dip of a salmon's single vertebrae from inside my bony sandwich.
and, occasionally the phrase "our faces numbed by cocaine", from a story i once read.

these memories retain themselves in me like a perverted plant who sets it's vicious seeds in the fur of passing animals and sits, malevolent, in the damp corners of brain, waiting to disgust me;

giving me the strange sensation of delicious horror i've always got from reading about dead animals, torture, slavery, victorian crime.

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28.6.07

dont you realise, dreams mean nothing

21.6.07

dreams