Let's be wed.

Let's just talk to each other every time the other one is online, whether we're worried about seeming clingy or not. Let's just have long phone calls where we chat shit and never hang up. Let's never fall asleep again; watch 80s films and drink whiskey and smoke and hold hands. Let's go for cold early-morning walks and listen to Iron & Wine and not need to breathe a word. Let's spend every other day together. Let's never tell each other how we feel, but instead trap every secret emotion in the 'Black Box' at the back of our minds. Let's just keep treating each other like this means nothing. Like we feel little more. Let's waste the rest of our time together on awkward, unreliable romance. Let's let each other go. Let's think about each other every day but never admit it. Let's regret never taking a chance; never changing our minds. Let's grow apart. Let's build empty lives around something new, hollow and unnecessary and cold. Let's die. Let's find each other, in some unholy crevice of the earth, in years to come and knock down the walls we built to keep the memories of each other at bay with one fell swoop. Let's hold hands and walk and watch Star Trek and argue over which series is the best. Let's fall in love. Let's run away and get married and have children and live a life that, once upon a time, we both deserved.
Let's just talk.


Over and out.

Foreboding Dawn

Croons;

Melodic talons tapping my skull,

Piercing through the hush.

Reverberating. Dull.

Scratching at the breadth between us.

Ripping a placid night from the walls.

I stir.

That callous cricket never mutes!

A cautious conscious

Casts out its liberal roots,

Tearing cracks into my heavy

Head with uninterpretable calls.

Awake.

An old ghost flickers in the dawn.

I recognise its bones:

Yellow. Worn.

Familiar smiles etch its jaw.

I blink and your silhouette is gone.

Time -

They say it smooths any bruise!

It claws at mine, leaves tracks,

Primal clues.

It draws me out of desperate sleep

For a minute of foreboding dawn.

Breathe.

I gasp until my lungs pull tight

With the scent of your skin,

Albeit despite

Your absence. My thoughts dance with that soul

‘Cross the room - a grim illusionist.

Fall;

Spiral forth toward another thought.

Walk a fine borderline -

Faded and tought

As my pulse hammers out the wail of
Your time, strapped comfortably to my wrist.

Faith moans about having to make independent decisions.

Living, in its entirety, is just a string of decision making. To live is to make hundreds upon hundreds of choices, and then to fulfil the acts entailed in making each of those choices. One's life is, ultimately, the product of deciding to act upon, or not act upon, every idea that the mind formulates. You decide whether or not to wake up, to walk or catch a bus, to love or hate. Even the simplest of decisions can effect one's life in a way barely forseeable at the time of its conception, and those seemingly inferior paths have, fundementally, made you that which you are today. Without those tiny decisions, those poorly or wisely made choices, you could be the very thing you aspire to be now, or that which you hope never to become.

Many of us wish that we could relive the past - to turn back time and take an adjacent path to that which led us to the marsh in which we have found ourselves drowning. Even I cannot deny having regretted choosing this or that, here or there, yes or no, but if we could go back and tick a different box in the 'multiple choice' section of our lives, would we be who we are today? And would we ever become who we pray to be tomorrow?

Over and out.

Faith moans about wearing black.

...and thus, I ought really to go to sleep. Tomorrow is my first day of washing dishes at a cafe in the village thing where I live, and I need a plain black shirt, which I don't have. I'm going to have to get up at stupid-a.m and scour town for a shop that sells cheap shirts, because I have no money because I have no job and thus we are brought smoothly back to having work in the morning. I phoned my boss and asked if it would be inappropriate to wear a black t-shirt with 'The Beatles' emblazoned across the chest (as a side note, when is it ever inappropriate to advertise John, George, Paul and Ringo?) and he replied 'a plain black shirt, Faith' and hung up on me. Ultimately, I can see me breaking a nail during washing duties and then never going back, but if I want to go out tomorrow night, then I need some funds.
DARN YOU, EXTERIOR PARTY EMPLOYMENT.
DARN YOU, PREVIOUS FINANCIAL SITUATION.
DARN YOU, DESTITUTE EXTENDED FAMILY.
I am also smelly from an hour of kickboxing.


Over and out.

Someone moaned about Faith moaning.

I've been recently informed that my blog is less than cheery, so here is a jovial post for the less depressive of you.
I just ate a toasted bagel filled with thick-cut mustard ham. It was...beyond definition. Seriously - I couldn't possibly begin to describe how much I wish I had another, but I know that if I continued to devour the kitchen inventory, it would take something spectacular for me to stop. This would undoubtedly result in gaining more excess blubber, thus becoming even more aesthetically revolting, never marrying and living in a wooden box on a roundabout island surrounded by scruffy cats. So, in effect, another bagel would ruin my future. We don't want that, so I will just grudgingly abstein from any more delicious bagels.
On a somewhat more positive note, I'm watching series 3 of The A-Team and swooning over Dwight Shultz, because for some reason unbeknownst to many, I am attracted to the strangest of men. Also, I have discovered a basic chord progression for 'The Wild Hunt' by Tallest Man on Earth in standard tuning - OH YES, TABS.COM, YOU BEAST.
I've also recorded ALL OF THE NEW 'ACE OF CAKES' EPISODES. This programme makes my life. One day, I might marry Ben the construction manager and we will have the best wedding cake of all time in the shape of the Hogwart's Express. And what a beautiful wedding it would be! We would have all of the Charm's City Cakes crew there, mingling with my disfunctional family to sitcom-like effect. God. I'm really not aiding my argument of not being a whale here. A girl can dream, eh?


Over and out.

And God decreed 'henceforth, there shall be-eth daily excitement for thou from thy bretherin @ cooimapigeon.blogspot.com'

NEW POST - less depression, more mundanity. Aren't you excited? Listen here!

I'm in quite a lonely/pseudo-profound person at this point in my life (I'm assured by my family that this is a result of my tender teen age, and that, with time, I will become a valuable person who has things to offer to those around me as opposed to a short-tempered shrew, hibernating, curled by an open window in my Marlboro-scented bedroom, sobbing behind a soundtrack of various remixes of 'Skinny Love'). Although I realise that I have become somewhat morbid and defeatist in my relative age, I feel that writing semi-analytical reviews on life helps me clear my cluttered mind-box. AND YOU GET TO READ ABOUT IT! I had a 'Blog.com' blog, but 'Blog.com' is a pitiful excuse for a blog site, and so I transferred over here like the fair-weather parasite many of you have grown to hate, slithering uninhibitedly in the clotted bloodstream of the intranet. 
Thus, prepare yourself for a bombardment of depression and self-pity!


Over and out.

Faith moans some metaphorical prose.

We lay the most wonderful concrete foundations, sunk so deep into the golden sand that you would dig forever to reach the bottom. We built rooms – fantastic parlours – boasting tremendous silken armchairs and uninterpretable paintings, huge open firepits roaring with the embers of a love which I had long previously seeked, golden corridors that stretched for miles and miles along.

There was one room, one tiny pantry hidden in the back of the kitchen, that held every doubt I ever harboured, every secret we kept from eachother’s steadfast loyalty. Anonymous, haunting voices scratched at its bolted door, ripping at the unsteady wooden frame like the enormous claws of some terrible beast until, finally, I freed them for the relief of my own detrimental curiosity. They pinned me to the once-glorious velvet carpetting with a force the likes of which I could never have anticipated; tore Picasso from the walls, scorched that priceless Chesterfield you often occupied, screeched with primal delight as the silhouette of our exquisite home crumbled into the oncoming tide. They spared nothing, less those singed foundations buried deep beneath the waves.

I swim out to look at them, from time to time. I dive as far down as I can, scraping up feeble fistfuls of silvery sand and reminding myself of the sheer depth of that initial grey basing, but even I know that nothing more could ever rise from such an admirably, spectacularly irrevocable shipwreck.

Over and out.

IF I WERE TO WRITE A STORY, THIS SNEAKY BIT WOULD SNEAK IN SNEAKILY

   "The city was far bigger than I had remembered. Its vast silver woodlands buzzed with a sleepless excitement that I could not recall. I had been away for too long, and resented how unfamiliar it felt to stand in the grand shadows of the buildings here, like colossal sculptures whittled up from the cracked pavement. Nor could I pace myself for the harsh contrast of the dirty snow that seemed somehow less pure here than in the bleak countryside I had occupied for so long. I felt, again, somewhat like an abandoned child, eternally crooning for the love of a family long lost behind a smoky curtain of relentlessly questionable time. I could not revive any memory of the monstrous cars here, which knocked me back with the force of their passing, nor the deep rumble of heavy footsteps growling in sardonic unison along the footpaths. I often left the house nowadays only to decide that life out in the city was not as fulfilling as I was led to believe, and spent unimaginable stretches of time confined to my four, nicotine-yellow walls. It seemed somewhat amusing to refer to this house as ‘mine’. It rung with a musty smell that clawed unwelcoming at my lungs every time I entered it; a dissatisfying glaze played across the worktops in the fumble of a hazy city sun; a harsh wooden fencing broke the land outside a large bay window into cold, uninhabitable districts of unnaturally lime-green grass. Nothing here felt homely to me at all. I constantly rued my naïve decision to preserve my life now that I had invented a means of doing so.
I recall very little of my time in the house around this period. In fact, I recall very little of my life there at all. It feels almost as though it were all a dream - a misty, questionable memory from a distant reality. Who can say if these memories are real or not? It would make little difference to me now that I am but a desperately aging man trapped helplessly in the uncomfortably familiar skin of my secluded youth. Life, love, time - I have traded it all for a feast upon my own insufferable gluttony, but, as with all things, I had not counted on its swift decay. I have sold my very soul to the faithful demons of my abhorrent curiosity. Which God, in His infinite wisdom, would direct me to the celestial gates of heaven now? "


Over and out