On the Cusp of Something Beautiful...

sometimes there are flamingoes, and flamingoes stand on one leg. but did you know that when they do that they’re only using half their head?

yeah, flamingoes have this cool skill it’s really quite insane, they’re sort of sleeping, but with only one side of their brain

so really, flamingoes are never not taking a nap, and what I really want to say is... I wish I could do that.

sometimes there are snails and snails have pretty homes but did you know that a snail can sleep for three years, who’d have known?

yeah, so if you see a snail that hasn’t moved from it’s spot in a while, it might just be asleep, preparing for the next couple of miles

so really though they’re small, snails are more than adequate, and what I want to say is I wish I could do that

sometimes there are elephants and elephants have trunks and they’re cool and all but it’s sad that elephants can’t jump

don’t get me wrong I’m glad that I can jump but if it meant I’d be an elephant I’d for sure give it up

so really though elephants lack that certain skill I’d sooner be an elephant ‘cause that sounds proper chill

I guess what I’m saying is what I really mean is I’m getting really bored of being a human being

my body is an untold story. one you’ve probably heard before and will hear again and again, and again until the world stops bleeding

it's a backdrop, a green screen and no amount of ripped jeans and winged eyeliner will make it yellow

it’s broken and trying and mostly useless and dreaming and always falling in love

I guess

it’s just easier to run into chaos when you’re made of dust and live in a city of satire

you’ve a scar for every time you said you weren’t afraid and another for every lie you ever told

because the truth is so much prettier when it’s covered in glitter and it doesn’t even matter if it lives outside your head or not

it’s inevitable that your tea will get cold if you don’t drink it and you’ll forget the story when you stop reading but among the Wikipedia articles and cigarettes and vinyl records and regrets there, is the smile that they cut off your face

and a glue stick and some sequins and safety scissors and it won’t ever be finished but it’ll still go on the fridge

© On the Cusp of Something Beautiful

Hi friends, 

I wanted to start uploading some spoken word, so here is Tulip! The video could be more polished but it’s a start! 

nothing is ever truly in darkness

you write in a midnight but

even when the lamps are off

there’s a grey fallout around the curtains

and it’s grey enough to see

and it’s grey enough to breathe

*content warning: mentions of death/suicide*

they say that the best art comes from a place of pain i’m not sure i believe that, but then again

pain is relative and i laugh on a life of so-called pain was it really so bad, when it just ages like wine? and time will tell me  how wrong it was  to feel pain

but spill your bloody words into poems and someone will listen maybe someone will listen to your pain prescription

they say that step on a crack and you’ll break your back and that if it rhymes it must be true and all my truth comes in lines and all my lies come true if i believe them  and all my lines lay bare in truth and lies and ambient despair

if all my lines are truthful lies does all my truth make me dishonest? am i a liar because every truth is staged? but the stage is the biggest lie all you have is pure pain and you are a lie on borrowed time and borrowed eyes will read underneath your pseudo smile

and sad writing will make you happy and sad writing will make you care

from day to day, your sad, sad writing takes you places your body can’t while you lie in the dark and mystical creatures invade your brain sad writer, think your brain is your best asset and it’s deceased and your pain is nothing and everything and you are the disease and it scuttles inside your nostrils  until you pray and you have never prayed before what’s more it’s twisted and this is your beauty it’s skewed and this is your revelation dear, sad writer sadness is your muse until your sadness is no longer news what will you be left with?

sad writers are stressed sad writers are worried sad writers are depressed but sad writers make money and sad writers have really, really good sex but what’s next? bad relationships are lonely  and poetic  and heartbreakingly beautiful but when you were writing about how beautiful and poetic it all was they left and made art about you

sad writers take their ashes and build more ashes until a lonely girl says “me too” and writers her sad letters to you until she writes her last and she’s remembered for her death because she thought it was art you told her it was romantic and now she’s dead “but her art lives on - how poetic” art does not come from death it comes from life did your sadness make you forget? did you forget that you are still alive?

make yourself hurt so you can make art break your heart just for seascape of lost love break your bones for your next great epic and if you still can’t find the words throw yourself off a cliff and  someone else will find them for you a writer’s eulogy isn’t written by them sad writers die and their stories are left unsaid sad writers are left dead

sad writers, dear, sad writers one day, when there are no clouds left in the sky fly a kite and write sit on the grass and live your words

because nobody else can live them like you can

When you wake up Just before the dawn And the world is blue Through  Paper eyelids

When silence whirs Inside your skull And your bones burden Certain To weigh you down

When the light shifts Drawing a line Across your eyes Wide As not to miss anything

When the paint drains From your empty fingers And into the sky Alive Just for a moment

The spectacle never comes.

The same world Hides  Behind the curtains But maybe one day It will feel like a new one.

I remember sitting at a keyboard vaguely and mindlessly tapping the letter J not even pressing it just sort of rhythmically bobbing my index finger a union of the organic and the digital just listening to that half click beat over and over and over staring at too many too bright pixels and though a clean white page in Word sat there waiting for my clean white thoughts it felt somehow really… blue like a deep, vein blue the kind of blue that sits in the hollow of your chest and gives you tunnel vision the kind of blue that cuts off the world  and drowns you that mechanical blue that makes you feel like there is always something to do but never enough time to do it and yet l can’t or won’t stop dancing to a half click beat poised to do something but it’s just the letter J and the colour blue and the sound of words I can’t think of and it’s too many things but it’s not a lot but it’s always gonna be too much it’s small but it’s everything and everything is ambience and when everything is ambience it feels just like silence a silence that you can hear over the half click beat

but in the end the first letter I typed was I because it seemed like an easy way to begin

My Turtles Aren’t Your Turtles

**SPOILER ALERT: This article contains mild spoilers from the first chapter of Turtles All The Way Down by John Green. Please stop here if you haven’t read it!** A take on reading the first chapter of Turtles All The Way Down by John Green, in which the author’s reading is compared with my personal reading. If you haven’t yet grabbed your copy of John Green’s latest book, you’re truly missing…

there’s magic here if you whisper the right words at the rocks you’ll see them melt to sand right beside the iron blood sea where the people sink their hinges and the tips of trees  poke through the water trying to breathe and it’s like you’ve been painted with an old coffee filter left out in a haze of rain

it doesn’t seem much like magic but it’s there it’s hiding in the way you gravitate it’s woven into the wind and though you know you know you’ve sinned that sand - it’s gonna stick to your skin

and all you can do is try to wash it off.

beneath the rain so loud on grimy windows and the coffee never quite strong enough and the cold nose compressed against the chipped mug there might be a tinge of a smile and a tiny hope that maybe on this, the worst of Monday mornings someone will compliment your new pea green coat

The Doctor’s a WOMAN??????

The 13th Doctor was cast a few weeks ago and it’s Jodie Whittaker, aka A WOMAN, how preposterous and deceitful. You probably know of the sci-fi hit Doctor Who and you may also know that the Doctor has ALWAYS been cast as a man… From the very first Doctor, we have had many different men bring new things to the role, and it’s been mostly an absolute delight. the thing about sci-fi is, it has RULES.…