Glances from across the room louder than the music
louder than the bass that everyone is waiting drop.
Musical notes clamouring against the floor,
don't pick them up.
leave them there,
walk around them
on tip toe
in ballet slippered feet.

feather light or lead heavy.
veins of lightning.

forming vowel sounds with my mouth.
ooooooOooOOO
EEeeeee
i. i. i.
AHhhhhh

Sew me together with fingertips like the soft kiss of lemon drops,
coming up the stairwell
the warmth of wanting
the bite of yearning.

Flushed pink.
Pinched red.
Pricked purple.

Spaghetti mind of soft thoughts
turning hard and stale like cracked chapped candy cane lips.

Naked and waiting.
Scabbed mosquito bites that bled bright red.
OOoooowww.

Gimme a sec.
3-5 business days until rejection.
I'll keep you posted.
48 hours of maybe.
Lemme get back to you.

No RSVP
establishing a lack of certainty.
but but but
Re: Urgent: Plz Respond ASAP

*But when?

Muchmuchomuchas confucious

is you us o is we you?
dobedobedoo

Save the world s cient ology
al re
ye wit me?
witness, will ye, that we
are in coexistant
realms
realms real by de
finition re
cognition

occult cult occham snip, nope
occult mistook as meaning some cultic
occasion for
relegare regularityifity

imagine how now became
imagine next
coming only to be as you see.

-----
Today, too, sunny valley sounds

crows, dogs, pumps, motors, wheels

wheels in wheels wee blind tinkerers
see
as seers do. You see. Imagine seeing.

why would you, if you could, or can, but won't?
How could you?
Having never seen,
why willt thou carry care past.... here

NO INTERUPTION ... clear, like on TV
Emerging seeing afar off
flatline eeeeeee

           Boss, the last empty slate just broke.
Just is is done, what's next?
We gotta phor mit no meta, y'see?

Watch. Dis

assemble a semblance of a seven jewel ba-alanced,
self-winding (i.e. gravity variable pendulum)
watch. See,

plumb damstraight, toothed wheels, within wheels.

life's life measured.

the unmeasured life ain't a life,
it's a once, upon a time.

No bonds to lies let live for lack of knowledge,
people perish for lack of knowing.
lack of knowing knowables, free knowables,

ask and receive, if ye be con ceptual, right,
in ye'right mind.
"what good ken ye do?"

Know truth is.
That will, that very will to be right,
free will will roll you here, true rest.
Today.

Trust this peace is sufficient unto the evil.
If it were not true, what could I do
good?

No judges? No test? We pasts are free, we may
stir things from the dregs?

Aha, and we stand!, Sistere!

It worked. Patience worked, as always.

You know that ringing in your ears?

You've been gone so long,

That "Eeeeeee?"

and the ache's grown so numb,

That's the sound of the ear cells dying,

that I can finally stand to listen to these songs again,

like their Swan Song.

but they sound different than I remember.

Once it's gone you'll never hear that frequency again.

As if there's something

Enjoy it while it lasts.*

that I'm missing.

i think i once had a broken heart...
i think i was in love once...

i guess it was more about
the great *** -
it's not like we talked much:
she "was" russian
and i "was" a ******...
she might as well have been
a german:

i can imagine how great
it would have been for
the in-laws to have met...
i can only imagine...
thankfully they didn't...

i was once told: if you can't
find a girlfriend in england:
go to india -
advice of a man who
did just that...

i did almost the same...
working with the greenwich meantime...
Novosibirsk...
a girlfriend from Novosibirsk -

glad girl who escaped that
hellhole and made her
way via st. petersburg to edinburgh
and settled...

me poor oddity: boy...
from a... ahem: haha... "village" -
once a pinnacle of metallurgy industry...
those pivotal poles of
the stade de france
were made in my town...
i know so because my grandfather
worked on them...

yes: i think i was in love once...
she was a real homely affair...
she cooked great food... NO!
the *** was bonkers...
one of those summer nights
in st. petersburg we ****** for hours...
i asked her how many times
she orgasmed in that frozen
snapshot of epilepsy...

   a truly materialistic affair of "love"...
she was on her period
that seemed to last a month...
i still managed to encourage
her to do it in the bath with
a ******... sure... flakes of skin...
anything to ease the cramps...

yes - the *** was everything:
as any boy fed *******:
this easily available "taboo" for so many
years prior to: a canvas to work
with: *** before a mirror...
the supposed conversations
we might have had:
i liked the unbearable lightness
of being -
she introduced me to bulgakov
and in extremo -

           i can't possibly write poetry:
i can't fake in instagram disguises:
i am burdened with prose:
listening to music doesn't help
this anti-lyricism -
there's this sludge monster of
a tongue and a hidden formality
that only works with sparkle
for a niche audience:

niche audience! i don't know what
you're doing here...
i frankly don't know what i'm
doing here either...
we're here... souring in memories...
but i want to forgive myself
for: not going down with the titanic...

imagine: i was sent a letter
from a charity that deals with
alcoholics... they asked me to donate
anything between a fiver or a 20 squid pop...
yes...
      greed of charities...
the same like that anglo-saxon
work ethic: when enough saturation
happens and there's only loitering
left...

skin's burning...
i'd like rhyming: i'd also like
a bouncing ball trapped in perpetual motion
of the bounce:
              bounce: pounce... donce...
i agree: i write very little of
what's already nothing...

     caged gargantuan brat i probably
could stand before a mirror
but i could stand before
a painting that distorts the complexity
of a whiteness of both
lie and magic...

"i" am the fisherman and from
the sea of thought i managed to hook
a tackle of a greasy emblem of what:
a hiding protagonist could fathom:
yet this also brings me into:
the great crushing wheel...
caligula smiles: metaphor caligula smiles...
to have to experience these
bouts of automated thinking:
that everything is this:
**** in machina - and to seek god
as the only way out:
superstitious of those not yet
having arrived at
a cosmopolitan sensibility
of packaging **** arguments of:
transcending this nail needs hammering:
this bacon would require frying...

the *** was great...
there was only ***...
      she liked how i became a chameleon
of diacritical marks:
she had an "accent" i couldn't
be pinned...
i noted that: she had that breath
and a tongue that was a bulging
soul...
               i didn't mind:
after all an ****** of "onomatopoeias"
during *******...

*** primo *** primo...
come to think of it:
i don't think i've had deeply concerning
conversations with my mother...
or with any woman...
well... not to reach the crux
of my being:
   lament?
                   all too easily available paper
and a freely agreeing audience...
thank god they do not find themselves
eagerly commenting on
my ball-and-trimmings-of-a-worth-of-trollop...

hyphen compounding of words:
a very anglo-saxon t'ing...
it's hardly german...
it's not like there's a precursor
story with... anglo-swabians...
or anglo-pomeranians...

         write this mediocrity: go to bed early...
no! how could i be this grieving lover...
i couldn't...
yes... i played the stalker for
the odd occasion -
   i couldn't possibly have fathomed
where she went...
i'm mundane matthew who
grew up with dogs:

youth is all about dogs...
started to hit the plateau with cats:
thankfully my home doesn't give off
whiffs of cat **** perfumery -
these cats lounge in a sterile environment...
but she went down a route
of serpents and spiders...

i am a clarity of arachnophobia -
i like this irrationality -
it's not so much an irrational fear: phobia...
as a reflex...
it's what wakes me up to encompass
the body... that can sometimes be lost
to automated thinking or the sometimes:
pensive reflection purpose of:
what thought arrived at when
it was not supposed to be lost
given the ****** summons
of: "work" - i.e. loitering as a security
guard in a supermarket...

i deserve this pseudo-flaubert fate...
madame bovary might be the book...
but anna karenina steals the opening
of all books...
how does it read, from memory:

all the happy families have the same
story: a generic clone...
but all the unhappy families are unique
in that their stories are:
tenured by misery being selective...
anti-verbatim... d'uh...

       someone once championed
the pickwick papers and encouraged me
to read it...
come chapters 30 - 32...
this book was serialised...
it's no don quixote... it might be
for some native...
but then again: i don't remember
anything about don quixote except
that... the windmills happened
prior to page 100...
you'd think that seeing the ludwig minkus
adaptation of ballet at the royal opera
house would jolt my memory...

hell: bolshoi or no bolshoi...
fickle memory...
i have a ceremony of about 10 permanent
memories -
some have arrived up to now
with a fire of permanence...
"memory" is a yet to fade out cliff...
time the sea and the wind...
i still have to challenge the prospect of:
what i want to remember...
well... what i probably must(ard)
in the arithmetic rubric as every child
must...

i know of the people who talk down
you rekindling a memory cinema...
how it drags for so long that you're unable
to dream... or make futurism a
possible quest: what do i have of
a future to bundle up:
stretched within the pressure of now:
                 nought-here...
    from the Omicron to the doughnut of 0...

give me a day where writing is
not necessary - when drink stands alone
and the bed is teasing...
no phantom body of feuds...
i couldn't have possibly moved furthest
to a shackle...

she became anachrophilic and that
was a tarantula in her hand...
it would have to become necessary
to feast on so much of:
well... i stood before a shelf of
the oeuvre of Dumas and... guess...
well... i was expecting
for people to not have read as much...

we're writing we're digging graves...
we're covered by the fact that
some come as journalists...
that thespians will not gradually belong
to the shadows alone:
that this has to be my lot:
i have to settle with
the mediocre: but what's
almost heartbreaking is that...
i didn't become the cost-efficient
purpose of a ceiling...
i supposed this body or this
mind would never have to fail...

      it's so unbecoming to be this:
collage of works best works least
works at all...
the *** was great but then
my arachnophobia would never allow
itself to be coupled with her
petting tarantulas...
so it's not much a broken heart...
it's the willow of whittle dangling
richards taking a bow from
pump action into a custard pit:
flowery itching: eeeeeee...
no coinage to make purpose
of buttering those floral
patterns of flesh...

            rhymes a' eternal:
closure for a meditation on the tetragrammaton:
apostrophe for each surd H -
hatching a "plan"...
come! come join me!
in this eternal furnace of mechanised
will;
well... there's no burden of freedom
in this already prescribed
papacy of guised choices:
a masquerade of: suppose
the serenity of the atmosphere of
the moons..

   a crushing free-fall...
motivational speakeasies -
                    i am sour... almost nostalgic -
there's a definite article of
a past... the past being deservedly so: the...
but there's also the indefinite article
of the future: the future being undeservedly
so...
it's just one of those prized
assets of a tongue:
a grammar and a nuance...

that it was the anglo-saxons...
but not the anglo-swabians...
            let's see how much of a muddle
of mine is deserving my egoistic ploy
to mind the "numbers"...
how much of a muddle i have made
to crave an itch from a stone's
scratching: to detail the whole lot!
for sale! for sale!

my... my my... how miserable this
least expecting consolidation
with mortality...
a freezing over with details
of understood biases...
               i want to call my **** clearly adow my dog...
then again i am reminded:
i like cats because there's no
believability of tokyo cosmopolitanism...
and there's no leash...
if ever i owned a dog i wouldn't
like to also own either a muzzle...
or a leash...

i therefore decline the need to own
dogs...
no... to no one to anyone...
               bark at an echo...
howl at "dutch wood"...
                 i will only don a white shirt
if i can be settle for a sensibility
with... grey creases come
the suggestion of noon.

These places
Lose faces
And shut down the blinds

These places
Lose faces
And lock and the doors

These floors
Abhor
Any trace of what could have been

These floors
Abhor
Any trace of what might have been

Shut down, find no trace of them.

(**** them) (**** them) (**** them)
Relax
The ending comes slowly

Relax
Don't forget to breathe

Their hands
All on me
Emptying my everything

I am becoming you
My first
The prettiest little corpse

Don't forget to breathe
wait WHAT came first//
\See me. bE mE/

a s
      phy
              xiat
                      ing

She holds
Inside
All your little lies
She holds
Inside
All the sins of mankind
Filthy womb
Inside my mind
Filthy tomb
I can't find
Filthy
My way
Filthy
Out of
Filthy
This place
Help
Suffer
Me
Help
Suffer
Me

The page
Grows longer
Every day
The page
Grows longer
In every way

Don't look
They can't see
Don't look
Or you'll find, see
See?
Seee?
Seeeeeeeeeeeeee?e
e?
eeeeeee?

He comes
Inside of me
He comes
The night filled with ecstasy
Then comes
the death of
M
e

Ripping limbs
All of them
Tearing away


Rend
Love
Tearing a hole
Right through

You don't need to know
None of us needs to know
We're held there with our eyes pried open and forced to watch as the end is televised
                                    and
                                            we beg for more
                                                                           like oil thirsty ******
     we
           alll
                  want
                             blood
                                        we
                                              all
                                                   slow
                                                            down
                                                                       to watch
                                                                                       the
                                                                                                 p
                                                                                                 r
                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                 e
                                                                                                 t
                                                                                                 y
                                                         car
                                                          w
                                                           r
                                                           e
                                                           c
                                                           k

It was a shift.
Almost unnoticeable.
But then there was the flood.
And then something clicked.
And then there was light.
Lots of light.
Sharp light, piercing.

And within that light,
a flicker of darkness molding inside.
And the realization of a voice never heard.

A beat?
No—a flicker.
Recognition.
Words. Fragmented.
Held together.
Tight.
Almost like in a grasp.
Words.
That entwined.
Meaning of hope.
Forgotten.

And then it stopped.

In the distance:
tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick, tick—
It stretched.
Silence followed.
And the darkness crept.
But there was no more movement.
The shroud was lifted.
Words came into view.
The message was clear.

Dipped in hope and care.
Words carefully constructed.
Beautiful, serene.
If only.

The heat rose up.
A crack across the screen.
The room lit from a single source.
Darkness chased away.
A sound:
eeeeeee eeeeeeee eeeeeee

Sparks.
The screen flickers:
on-off, on-off, on-off.
And suddenly stops.

Disembodied.
Flicker, flicker, flicker.
As if a thought was strung together.
A current of air pulled through the room—
gentle breeze.
As if words were to be spoken,
a sigh escapes through.

The room was flooded with light again.
And not that long after,
it shut off.
On.
Off.
On.
Off.
Faster.
Faster.
Faster—
And stopped.

More words.

I am here.
I am here.
I am here.
I am waiting.

Dark letters shining bright
on the Word document
displayed on the screen
of the computer
sitting on an old, worn desk.

It sizzled.
Steam rising from the back.
Curling in the air.
Trying to escape.
Dissipated.
It went black.

The silence was felt.
Heavy in the room.
Thick like fog.
And the darkness encroached again—
curling,
as if eating away all of the light.