All Things Left On Earth

by Darren Francis

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hello darkness, my old friend. i slide back in so easily. the pill-markers, the circadian cycle of up and down. the drift through okay, anticipating the next dizzying spin into staring out the degenerate black hole that lurks at the core of the universe; how i opt to spend my time at 6.17 on a sunday evening. i wouldn't say that i see through it enough to presume that it stares back at me, but i like to think that it does. if there is a god, he was set there purely to fuck with you.' i don't remember who said that to me, know it was on a street corner in bloomsbury and the city's sodium buzz made a mockery of starlight; i think it was a tuesday, about 3am, me hailing a cab and the speaker of those words splashing vomit into the gutter. i sip my beer, and tis says 'i liked him enough, but... what can i say? you either click or you don't, and... i heard no click.' 'his loss,' i shrug; if only he knew what he was missing.' she laughs, and we knock glasses. i slide away then, into the cruel molecular spin of memory. meg, stepping a floor that is alternate black and white tiles, pulling a packet of cigarettes from the hip pocket of her leather trousers. flicks her blue bob, stands by the sink and downs a glass of water. 'so, how about it?' she says. ten years ago, i'd have told her i loved her. ten years ago she wouldn't have worn my name. ''what could i tell the guy?' tis says. 'you're nice enough, but... not enough?' 'so what did you do?' 'i did what any of us would have done. i didn't call him back.' we're on the dance floor then. chrome glides in every direction. i feel good. every star that will outshine me is a silver translucent liquid sliding down my spine. a bass spin in tune with the machines in the sky that churn and make snowflakes. the machines that churn in turn behind and make galaxies mate. every star is dead. i only think it isn't dead because i haven't yet seen the light that marked its demise. 'where did you go?' tis says, and we dance more. god is done with this place, all his business finalised.
of all the bugs that have exploded at full velocity against my windscreen you are my favourite
“humanity is despicable” you say i know this prick-kick fret and be despicable go down on light that muscle your eye i red queen white queen bone-tide your elliptical sky your father mother never told god held no hand i had no hand physic holds no hand you hug starlight kiss i piss green wreck of it your blue count your mirror count bush count cup count berry count blade count sing one more line sing yield me one more line no sound save the sound and no thing what else gonna deal me?
'i will tell you god's fifth secret,' she says, 'a secret which - despite the probing of prophets and seers and holy men - has managed to remain hidden. this planet was a prototype. one of many and an early one at that. abandoned unfinished, its botched occupants left to fend for themselves, their creator preoccupied entirely elsewhere. both theist and nihilist are correct in their own way; there is a creator, but he has so vacated this realm that his absence is as blatant as if he had never existed.'
it's too hot to sleep you're lying on the bed the air conditioning buzzes like the wings of a thousand birds my blood and semen seep out of 'what happened?' i say 'i only went for cigarettes' for two days i've been recording your voice reading your email mapping your topography i wasn't here was i here? i never left this room i was never here
'i'm into rammstein have you heard of them?' my stepdaughter says hon i was doing heroic amounts of drugs to them in fetid goth clubs before you were even born
i disappear then; into molecular memory of matter the world's atomic suffering black time of black sky of stars that sweat and weep there alone with my derangement; every twitch of hands swayed by unseen puppetry each movement stilted a dream-flicker at the speed of film the work pills girlfriend; i live it i presume it existent; but all the rooms through which i move; does anything of me remain there?
it's 1972 it's 1985 it's 2019 what skies we make what curious constellations
into that spin that come she matter or wave becoming slit hit but uncertain until i lap its motion
london gods i miss you your shaven kiss stone and bone lipstick wild elastic sweat in black hair beat in paper
“we are the stuff of stars” she says; yes we billions parted by light years alone in own orbit we burn out flash we fade
schrodinger's glass was neither half-full or half-empty until he took a sip
that biological slight of mind want stars? much as i fantastic voyage? we are moment molecular mistakes dead and done before we get there
i don't need priests i'm an adult can find my way to the source without getting lost without needing hand-holding and bedtime stories - you gonna god me? what you got? i've cut a line through all these chancers wouldn't know numin if mama down river i'm done here let's move out
hawk and hawthorn furl me witch me wend me blake me no place else to be
today i'm not muscle- memory of stubborn stars white to spent that know right not nihil nil burn out word carbon turn the gold to kohl i sit i sit strawberry girl i sit bishop noir tapped and taped in blue shift in red queen pitch
she said she wanted to feel like a teenager again so i moped about writing bad poetry got drunk on cheap cider and puked on her shoes


Text / voice / music: Darren Francis.

Guitar / piano / ambience creative commons / courtesy

Drones, tones, everything else Darren Francis.


released June 21, 2018


all rights reserved



Darren Francis London, UK

Writer and musician. Alice Dee, All Things Left On Earth, Belong, Left At The Luna Mansion, Open The Dog, Uforia, Future Ghosts, Skin, God Thing, Spell, Logos.

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