The Nature of Escapists

Isn’t it embarrassing that humans need so many escapes? We need a door to open in the face of homework, or an angry boss, or the terrible weather, or paying taxes. We need a way to jump out of a Stressful Situation, we are ready to train our  legs to jump out of a burning building (aka a Work-Related Crisis) but aren’t ready to train for a marathon—we find an escape from running on the hot track in cans of Cola and a television set.

I will confess; I’ve exited so many situations before it doesn’t seem like I can count them all on the fingers of one hand, or five hands, if given the opportunity to do so.

Can I just tag the horribly large number of escape-routes we plan under Human Nature? I guess that’s it; as long we’re human we’ll need a indefinite number of escapes in order to save ourselves.

Hence, the nature of escapists shouldn’t come as a surprise – the nature of an escapist is simply humane, and the nature of a human being living in an overpopulated world in a century of evolution and change among other things like sweat, is to escape.

She’s Terrifyingly Similar

Ah, but she’s like that too-

she likes to line people up along a street, a sidewalk (preferably a really busy one, which leads to a noisy intersection full of people rushing to work, luckier than they think they are)

and like  a fisherman she gives them bait, and hooks them in with impossibly pink nails

and makes them walk further, further, ignoring the traffic light! oh my! and she builds up

the calm in them so that when they shriek as they crash

like dominoes, victim to her butterfly effect – playing people and lying them like corpses –

she can hear the shriek all the way from the graveyard at which she slips;

she likes to keep her friends close, enemies closer, but she’s impossibly obsessed with the people she’s danced on;

she likes to trace her hands across their carvings and lick a stone or too,

they bring flavour to her tongue, to her life, oh! th joy! although they barely taste

like anything.

Ah, but she’s like that too-

she likes to make sure that she trods on every single person she comes across,

so her Ultimate Being can be shown, what a waste! what a! waste! because she delights

in having herself painted pretty,

pictured kind,

a mirage of a golden heart,

almond eyes and sinner’s lips

that like to pull people apart. She delights

in being helming the world in a golden gilt frame,

her cheeks alight with the fun! of striking up

a new ploy like a match roughly caressing a box’s edge.

Ah, but she does sound horrible,

horrible horrible horrible

terrifyingly horrible,

please don’t let me come across her,

ever in my bloody lifetime! i might die

right on the spot.

Ah, but she’s like that too-

as am I.

(as am you, you and you who ruined everything).

maverick und’ the street lights,

slide into the night / you maverick under the street lights / let the darkness slide / a finger up you- r spine.

slide into the / night you maverick under / the street lights let the darkness / slide a finger up you- / r spine.

slide into / the night you / maverick under the street / lights let the darkness / slide a finger up / you- r spine.

slide into the night you / maverick / under the street lights / let the darkness slide a finger / up you- r spine.

Sweetness raking soil up your back,

I swear to God I told ya love can’t grow,

bittery curls of sunshine

nestle along the curve of your spine.

Can’t do anything to take the copper-jingles


so feel the pricks of pain

and let it ache there,

let it ache.

insp by;


I’m very shameless (and I won’t deny it)

I’m very shameless,

coming here to vent all my fears,

let all my tears rip holes for me. I can’t seem to breathe but

that’s okay because I have no dream left;

oh how it lays in my throat,

preventing dioxide from being exhaled,

blocking my passageway.


I want to scream,

not just once, you little freak,

but many, many times,

for it doesn’t matter —

nothing does. everyone’s feelings

before my mine,

that’s how it works. I scratch my skin and

then I care because it means that some people

will scrutinize my hair. I love myself

actually, not

but that’s alright…

it’s alright. I’m just shameless


living life like this

living of the rotting stench of my attitude,

believing I can do something, like

change the bloody world.

Loving Some Idol (who’ll do little than love you back)

The day mother said she didn’t care about anything except the fact that I was unhappy

was the day I broke inside

like egg-shells slipping from a hand, leaving sticky streaks

of yolk line me. I want to leave it all behind

I tell her but she doesn’t listen and that’s when I completely give up;

if she locks the door of our house and

I am left outside, then no hope is left in the world.


All I have left is music and the appreciation of no-one;

the fact that no-one’s eyes watch me anymore caresses me like

how the arms of an hourglass fit snugly around one trapped in time,

in memories. Maybe I’ll rip off my earphones,

tear them out from my ears,

when I want to say something that I know won’t hurt anybody. I can’t have

music comfort me all the time; people singing and spitting into my ears,

slamming my drums, telling me that i can and i understand and it’s alright,

we’ve been there too — they won’t be there for me now

and I don’t know if they ever will.


So I just make the walk back to my mother’s house

with the feeling that a large stone has nestled itself into my stomach,

and I wait outside the door,

for cooking,

for false warmth with love

that has conditions on it,

for a place to call home again. I force myself to

cut the lines of my earphones with my jaw;

let the electricity spark through me,

set my veins alight.

Nevermind, nevermind. It’s going

to be alright,

he swears.