irsinkast

There’s a heat wave. Statistically even. It was on the news and all. And that’s where all the truth comes pouring out, no? That’s the moment we look forward to so we can feel informed. I’m sleeping like a charm though. If I take some precautionary measures. But during the day I’m dragging this awful thing along. It hangs from my spine as if it is attached directly to the cord inside. The pain is like metal flashes of memory cutting and slicing away at my breath. I feel bereft. Cleft in twine, straight down the middle. It made me think of the wounded, dying girl that cut off her own face as she sank to the floor. Not to be recognized, nor remembered. I thought about the reason for that mutilation in those last seconds for a very long time. Because I did not have to convince myself that it made absolute sense. It just did. I even liked the concept. I don’t just talk to myself, you know. I do speak to others about this amour for the negative. It still is a delicate subject cause it makes

I once wrote these lyrics in my hardcore days: “These metaphors, don’t tell me who I am. They classify me in a box and feed me to death. Now I am dying here, in your euphoria. Your soft coercion, I name chains. I don’t need your new age doctrine, I don’t need to shake your hands. I don’t need your pretty pictures, I don’t need your promised land. You spread your lies, like rain across the land. They live your lies, savages… “ and so on. The song was called ‘Box’ and the thought of it kept me awake last night. Or maybe it was just something to do while I was awake anyway. Serves me right for listening to this 108 compilation (which you all should get if you want to know shit about shit) over and over again in my car, to and from work. I got up to piss and while I strolled into the bathroom, I saw the light of the washing machine which sprung the voice of my girlfriend saying: “I’m gonna put in this laundry, but – shit – it’s gonna suffocate if I leave it ‘til the morning. Ah fuck it” (w