Category:
I USED TO RECOIL REAL GOOD
That was the death grip,and now I will have my time to go blind
The title page of the one who has remembered, and touched the most secret locations, and come there already broken a bit and without provisions, for then, for there, is a strangely colored sun, the one that is set to mark and beckon, to identify our steward in this locus
~ ~ ~
Sense of finality comes with insanity. they are partners in their assiduous assault. and, Book, you know that i am not inconcurrent; a terminology for someone like me, is (rehash)
Or watcher /or, regurgitator/
NOTE:
i can do stuff, i am not defenceless, nor skillless nor nothing nor not nothing, and its all just as well that these pages are porous – a someone who would kiss me was a blaze from the digital plane, and in classic me fashion – Destroy Everything
Fuera, i will be lulling you – its the nicest thing that i could do.
write an homage to winter, an ode to memory – give the chefs what they want, even peace, even a laugh
Give Laughter reprieve in which to breathe – give the breather space (funnily) and the earnest of one’s eagerness to defeat oneself in battle. to the battle, give thy will.
I have leased my body
Pea’s house looks like an almost exact inverted version of my Gram’s house in my hometown; it was surreal– and now, that void drifting further — constellations appearing where before there was a hazy star
A star, chiding and smiling way near the core, such a smile that said core cannot be hid by surface fervour – this is the way that a lover smiles
Now here at the end of things on earth, i imagine the sun, our Sol, swallowing us whole
The story in which the other wasted bottom dismisses her own route to the oddly safe shock
Against her bland backdrop of albescent tunnel vision
- expressing something deep within
loaded with dense long material
Long ago she quit the river,
could not hold her uneven bottom
too long,
Young, disheveled wet,
tiled against a captured sky
in the peripheral game
of the lovely antiquated
The world is a sigh
The sites in the mind where things have happened
are visited by emaciated frothing thieves,
their daggers in their sides