It won’t be this year. I’ll see them next year.
As he slowly chopped meat, in the kitchen. The kitchen is a place where food is prepared. One hand, covers the blade of the knife, the blaring television is below the mind feld open casket sea, tunnel. It’s more than a grey sweater. He was a blanket of safety for a woman, repairing.

Collect the meat with a knife to push past. Feet are for moving, and passing, bread through a tiny hole in the ground. It is waste. Something so beautiful - It’s something that sounds like sadness, and everyone who listens tells me I am too melancholic.  I am a swallowed sea and sea people, see people are everywhere – can you not see. Memory, crying children, floating passing. Words, worded as something.

Cut potatoes into the small parts. Slowly, they cl amble into a pot. It makes a sound, sounding as though they exist there. The curtain is closed and swivel passed the past last and other. The cleaning cupboard is open. Yet, nothing is being cleaned.

A slow limp is forming. It is one of the first signs of ageing.

It is frustrating when you consider the possibility that we do not need light – open above the head of many – above and over – possibly discovered one hundred years later through an alleged suicide.

She sat there with admiration for her own legs for the first time, yet others reconciled her achievements. As she lay, her mother sat next to her. The stepfather sits beside with a computer fell into the lap upside – and sleeping. There is no real hobble, for the others are here to consider, silence as an activity.

“What if I am crazy” she spoke.

I can never consider the multiplicity and the sheer horror of sitting down. The sheer pain of sitting, and foot rested upon the other foot. The consideration of life is in the silences. The silence between the wall through metal poles, the poles who held together your economy.

These people are not real.
I heard them spoke, they speak, they see. I am covered in lies, I see and believe.

I passed over them.
“WINE BAR?”
“WINE BAR?”

“I AM IN A WINE BAR?”

I can see how this is disruptive. It is best to note that I am not looking out for your interest here. You decided to read something, from the newspaper. It’s never present. Large shirt, ordered, supported youngster for a new team spoke.
“Willock”   It is time for new things to occur. With slow time.

I LOST MY HEART IN SWEDEN
ITS LOST HERE
IN SWEDEN
SWEDEN IN EUROPE

ITS LOST HERE
I FELT NOTHING WHEN I LOST IT
ITS OVER FOR US
I CAN FEEL THE SUMMENT RISE BEYOND
I CAN FEEL

I FELT IT
FEEL ME OVER THE MOON
UNDER SILENCE

AS I LOVE YOU FOR
OVER

Top of Form

Bottom of Form

Blue moon

In the light of the full crescent moon, the blue people came from the wings of wandered branches, out of their hidden homes to enter the open fields. With water on their backs, crunching branches as they walked, they were headed out to witness the first rising of the second sun. A sun they witnessed every four quintet’s. A quintet for a blue person was a one hundredth of their existence, as the blue children waved their arms in euphoric motion and the adults clung onto the toes of the Eutopian children. 

Distances further the sea surpassed the river in seminal desires. As water gently slapped one other in wind based motions. Two blue people heard the excitement from above their heads. Looking back, they saw the sounds of charming people, drenched in their blue skin as they slowly lifted their legs up and down on the seas edge. Silently, she spoke, “are you”

With quintet motion the other stood to cover a guard over her face and silently held their hand on the side of the silent being. A single tear slipped from outer edge of the eye and contemplated a settle in a few months time. With settle came a chance to create, another being to be present in their environment. It presented a chance for them to be cloned and share a name across all who said of them. 

They sat silently, waves passing through them as they United with the sea above, below and inside. The land they stepped on was blue, blue the colour they would see to, and the second sun. This was a night of conception, as he looked down to her small, petite stomach and felt the water gauge his hand, softly, without pressure. A sound came from their stomach and as both tears fell, the cores they owned were descending past the miracle seeing. A mirage, a memory, a time. 

He spoke, louder this time. 

“You are light”

As they looked up and saw his eyes press against her, their hearts created a second heart that existed as one. They opened their mouth and light poured out the outer edges. Their heart rate rested. They say their with their mouths open as the moths sat on their shoulders. As heat sizzled and claimed their bodies, their belly manouvered around one another creating serial swirls of lines that descended past their being. Environments around them shook. Leaves passed them and they began to lift and hover entirely, one foot at a time. One time a place, a palace of people, all blue, delighted in their intent. 

Emerging soon from the stomach, now lying flat, they stopped their light and his eyes regained a conscious nature. He shifted his hands to her vagina opening. The light had transferred to the opening between their legs as a small circle came from either side. The sound, now louder, rang through without a muffling that set it aside earlier. They took his hands away and they pushed. She pushed. She presented an opening and the casing surrounding the being subsided. She pushed and pushed and hands from her side body, breasts and mind captured the capsule as it presented itself out of line that sat between her legs. 

Water rushed out of her like a deflated balloon that rose too high, up to the shadows of time. The moon and this capsule communicated and spoke. Hovering just above her hands, the male simply sat there and looked at her, now becoming unstuck and resumed their roles as individual beings. The capsule now glowed and lifted upon her palms. She was now, aline with a washed sensation of disintegrated shells that crumbled in her finger tips. 

The sounds were calm, as the moon quietly sat and reduced in size, gave a shy glance and moved across the pale blue sky. Lifting less, the being broke free from their outer casing and sat, delicately in her hand. He looked at her. She looked at the being. She looked at the tiny details on her toes and swam, through the beings body to check for an identified sex. He sat there, silent and waiting for her return. 

As she swam she saw the organism in a closer detail. Her toes were dancing with the tickled sensations her new being displayed. She was looking for something, a sense that she knew, there was no defined. She knew but she had to check. “The moon had me fooled” she fled. 

“This whole time I felt a girl was who I needed. But this being shows no signs of any identified gender”

Scurrying through the midst of blue wires, connecting the pressure point rested on her breast heavy. Overwhelmed and worked out in her skin, seeping water inked her second finger ~ one from the left. The ink was black. 

“Funny” she pondered 

“The ink has always been blue here, yet this being seems to be an array of colours”

Jaunting lastly paralyzing her, she failed to untie her self as the branches stemmed to the human surpassed through her, she was choking, slowly but loudly in her mind. “What more” she spoke

Wrestling a trailing wire, she scattered past and headed towards the opening light that descended to her mind, slow in time and presence. A light so calm and beautiful she felt an ever present silence in her entire aching body. 

Sapping light drew the energy from her face and she untied her self and swam up. She swam and swam and swam and swam. And as submerged water, she was the water of being. She was the water of life. She awoke as the water left her, silently breathing slowly. The sun kissed her skin, the second sun.

He heaved and pulled her up. He touched her cheek and whispered, “what happened? Are you safe my one?”

She opens her eyes in stages, red in physicality, now changing a lot.

She silently looked at him, a single tear passing her eyes. 

“They have no gender” she replied 

“And she has gone now. My last hope, and we, now are forever changed as black and red enter our minds, once more”

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The stage

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Alexander Norton <alexandernicholasnorton@gmail.com>

Fri, Oct 4, 2:35 PM (8 days ago)

to me

The stage

The stage is a space where you feel qualified to say that you are doing well in your life. Regardless of the stage, people are listening to you, famous painters don't get their own stage but a person can demand silence. A person can stand and speak to people and your saying - "your welcome". "Your welcome for me, of all people, being here". 

We see this in stand up comedy with Dave Chapelle saying his name and everyone is appreciative or someone locally well known in a comedy or spoken setting involving words. A person on stage playing out an idea. Their friends gather, and look. Some drift, as audience members, and this is regular. Some sit and wait for the thing to be over so they can smoke. Others sit there intently listening, looking at every inch of the person with positive scrutiny. Rumor has it, comedians are decided to be good or bad on a matter of seconds. It's to do with ora, feeling, sensation. It's to do with how that person connects. If they connect as villains or supposed heroes. After the first time, being on the stage is easy. Why would you worry about people that barely exist, as the stage is a place of complete creation and silence. The person has left and the performance begins. They are no longer there anymore. 

The stage is large, or small, or filled with people sat around or empty. Sometimes the room is empty and devoid of any enthusiasm. This is when you "freak them out". The best comedy show I ever did was when the audience was looking for hard hitting material, so I told them my status as being a transgender person and then read out a book about koalas pretending to be an Australian. This may one day be a profession, but time will tell. 

Another, a comedy roast with a lot of comedy roast comedians. You know the type, the type of comedians who say "we've only just got started" after their first Nazi joke. The people egged on by an uneasy audience through subject matter and personality. Some of this derives from their real personality but it's exemplified by their presence on stage, some shrink and some get bigger, others squirm and run away as of the idea of being on stage is the worst form of judgement they could ever receive. The truth is, they judge your performance, not you. You are not there, anymore. 

II

When I consider my experiences on the stage I can only feel as though tremendous growth occurs through failing. Through trying and seeing what happens, pursuing something that is not comfortable for you - to stand. Stand up comedy can be dismantled by kneeling down, displayed by comedian James Acaster, for the first forty minutes he sits down and claims that any heckling would remain personal, in a sense to dismantle comedy. This is very frequent in the series 'Repertoire' separated into four, one hour specials. The tone, for Acaster is dismantled and our existence is reduced to ridicule without any context of what's real in the world created. 

Let's consider the elevated position of the stage, the lighting that highlights the person, the microphone that enhances a voice more important than any in that room. The most important person is speaking because they are on the stage, they are on the poster. The most important person in the room is revolving from person to person. They would share heart aches, ideas, feelings, manufactured sensations through forced behavior changes. The audience is not an accurate depiction of great work, they are there to take it all in, spit it out and reject the ideas, get out the room in disgust or adore the very feeling the artist creates. 

III

Is the artist important?

IIII

Next, what was your answer? Memories are places that lie to you as you remember them. They have eyes that seem to skip details that couldn't make the viewing pleasant. Your first time? On stage that is, is truly memorable. Can you remember the second time you performed? 

These questions are not always helpful in understanding the stage because each person is different. Of course there is no other similar people around. Did you know that everyone is completely different? Everyone is different. 

Based on the fact everyone is different. Nothing is really correct. There is no right or wrong way to say the stage is the same for everyone, thus making this whole text devoid of universal truth. It means nothing but my own need for general importance. That I did something. And isn't that what the stage is? A place for someone to be important, for once. Anyone? Anyone to be important. That's good right? To be important. To be important to someone, something. 

We tend to exist. It's a human tendency. We won't continue to exist unless we stop making more of us. That's one thing the human race has been good at - continuing. In memory. 

If I stand on the stage, and exist, I am there visible. I can be exposed to who I look like but hold the right to show who I might be. I might be this, if I worked on the background story, you may be sincere but the words can be contrived, you may be powerful of you believe yourself to be so. You are on the stage, everyone cares about you for a second until you fuck it up or open your mouth or fuck it up by opening your mouth. If you are a fuck up, was your time on the stage valuable? If you are an awful person, please continue reading to the next sentence. If you are awful on stage you will be more remembered than any heart felt plea for change, because infamous is the nature of memory. To be awful leaves us the most shook. That's why we do this, right? 

To be remembered. 

II

The stage is a lie. It's an empty place to fill stuff with. People, are filling up a room - a larger room. It's got so much pretension even the blank t shirts of the workers feels as though it's built on contrived ideas of what it means to be a liberal in a liberal city. To be privileged enough to be part of that. 

This was a room that was used for slam poetry - personally speaking, slam poetry is everything that's wrong with poetry - words judged and we all pretend that it's been solved - the issue. It's just been shared. And the sounding clicking of fingers further cements the notion of privilege of information. The room was now full of mutual masterbation as everyone was getting happy from the issues in the world. They all leave the room, smoke their cigarettes and head home and forget all about the lessons learnt. 

The stage makes it possible for mass hysteria to occur. The stage, if mismanaged by the organizer / the performer / the audience leads to issues. The stage is a the making of monsters (re. History). Modern monsters, what is a stage on the realm of digital platforms. I heard that twitter was one of the worst ideas ever - by recent personal evaluation. Giving us, people, a stage as we sit on our phone, is the arm chair politician connecting with every issue and mis using of information. If I have a blue tick next to my name - I am important. Can't you see how important I am, because all these people follow me. 

That type of culture. 

Is this what we are left to swim around in now? I see the dead leaves for the summer and all the coffee drinkers are now back home, including myself. I am just here, observing and watching as everyone else forgets about their own position. On their own stage, a stage that tells them in small / large numbers that they are validated in feeling that. 

Memory and feeling. We all remember and feel. Are we all human? Besides, all of this - there is no right or wrong way - if we treat as all, human. 

Sent from my iPhone

MY FAVORITE TELEVISION SHOW IS CALLED “STRICTLY COME DINE WITH ME”

I NEVER FELT SO COMFORTABLE AS TO WHEN I SPOKE ENGLISH FOR THE FIRST TIME>
HAVING NO IDEA WHAT IT ALL MEANT
HAVING NO IDEA HOW I LEARNT IT ALL

I LEARNT ABOUT ASL
APPARENTLY IT WAS IMPORTANT

I SAT IN A KITCHEN FOR MONTHS
REMAIN IN KITCHENS
AS SHE WONDERED

HOW IS SHE

AND I WEEPED
WHEN I HEARD SHE
COME FROM HER MOUTH

ORGANICALLY

SHE

I have an identity crisis

It's told on the winds

Over the mountains

And claiming me as rock

It's rock solid to assume

That I am not made to crumble

I am made to crumble beneath the circle tides

Mothers presenting school 

And suns run along the side way

Waiting for the tide to shift her

away 

away, unlike a settled scent 

Of generic perfume 

It's called generic for a reason

She called me a "basic bitch" 

I laughed 

It's funny when you come across 

And pass to 

Never see 

Over the sea

The basic smell of salt 

Shoved up your nasal

It's necessary 

To smell as if you fat in

To survive 

Is to drastic 

And to create 

Fear

Fear

I'm fear




MAXXXXXXXXX

It’s hard to describe 

Isn’t it nice how your stomach

Mine

B the end to 

Fall into a shape

It’s a shape

It’s break fast for 

Super quick super market dash

As a television series

Domesticated our time

With scent 

Its a pillow that presented your back 

With opportunities of subsidence 

How could eyes

“I’m gay cant you see”

A gay human 

Yag for lighted 

Held 

Among heavy human

Arm 

Is covering behind the awkward hand 

Hovered for silent 

I know you think

When you close your eyes

It’s augen 

Auuuugan

Again, 

Read books again, anxiety 

Slept as we cradle 

It’s hard to get out 

When you will to stay

When getting out gives you fresh air

Clean water is sprayed 

To wash handful sand 

One hundred million 

Perspectives

And you

A light in the night 

A nacht

Yachted, beyond tender thighs

Pressed, accumulate 

Descendants of human spacial awareness tactics 

Is within 

Our capacity to see

The earth wire connects 

Two singular track 

Under the river bed behind

Over the iron see

Realism became to real 

Reality in introspection 

Satalites can see the lines on our faces

For over desensitized moon travels depict 

Wie lange

Wie Lange ich warten

Fur 

Essen nicht eine stadt

But a start for us, as two lips under a host of chances 

We already experience 

But new

Align 

And isn’t this spark

Over a 

And deepened 

Through our core themed 

Academia’s, unverifiable through describing 

As understood variables 

Hitting soft bodies that slap through skin moving back and forth 

Against the hot tide

In spring 

(What a time to see and feel without needing validation, to exist)