One wish

I wish I was small. Smaller, but my arms were the same length. I’d still be able to give you a hug. Your arms would stay the same? No! Then I’d just be a sausage roll with finger nails. The human tea-bag. That sausage. Semi-permeable membrane.

I wish I was in a stage of my life where I could be with someone. I just feel I’m often not happy in myself. -you do ask a lot.

And everyone else? The other three. Not replying, the effort that I put in, the effort you put in. Watching all that Naruto. Television, books, anything you do, you choose to do. It becomes you. But only for a time. Then is passes into deficiency.

Dad had a Guinness, not offering me any.  Wonder what he wished. I wonder if it had to do with Mum.

Wendy brought up wishes being secret, I spoke of being shameless. I wonder if she thought of her late husband. 

You’re so confused. How could you operate a locked door? xo

Young and old. Jaded. Demanding, petty and disgusting. Invalid selfish challenged individuals. Lost in their own worlds. Cry and cry and tired eyes hypnotist along the course to your chosen death. You always have that. I wish they were alive, or I was doing something else. How unimaginative could you get. So elsewhere. So rash. Sick and cracked. Crisp nothingness, coldness within a darkness and depressing. Choosing to end it all, or chance your luck with the magic of the moment. Shar your wrists or slit them. Dark or light. Red is red. Black is before and after its own description. Which precedes? Canon of thought- mites and goggles. Our specks feels the light of larger things. Vibrating mass of colour sounds and form. One form, choice discussion and a sickness of slamming doors the threshold covered. Answer me thing. Answe this. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

Happy Birthday. Peck

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The blessing

The privilege
Liege.
The illumination.
Thought of divine.

Put up your hand.
How do you do YOU do it?
“Stick em up – stick up”
Something different again.

Where did it come from?
The sky.
“MY” idea?
The idea.
The thought.

To share.

And as I share,
I look nobody in the eye.
For when I speak, there is only I.
And I am in the world, and you are there to listen.
To watch to guess and to follow only.
There is little more to it.
Just a hand, waving.
Waving, waving.
Drowning.

The genuine surprise,
politeness of speaking in turn.
Time to formulate an idea.
A question.
“You have three opening paragraphs”.
The magic comes in the commas.
I imagine if they were written: Each comma, written comma,
considered comma, debated comma then, rejected.

Espresso riddling my mind.
Its so much better like this,
why has it taken me so so long.
Add very little to your body-
only the very best and it will all work out.
It should all come off.
only the best will remain-
my wandering brain thinking of more important things.
I don’t see me putting my hand up.
That moment of consideration;
like fire getting going.
hand up, like a fire work.
Erupting over the grass.
Irrupted dewy dells.
Thoughts scaling, bouncing on a grande atomic scale.
Less resistance, and then…
bang.
Illumination.
Lazy, harrowing orgasm of a thought.
Something new and unexpected.
And I like putting my hand up.
Eureka it spells!
Both, seriously ‘BOWTH’–
like an ass.
And only a few polite thoughtfuls (not I)
Not I,
only few thoughtful individuals perceive its merit.
What’s wrong with the smalls?
Too narrow-
Where do we want it to go?
Anywhere else.
Seeya man.
I’m going to the toilet.
Hands down.
No hands up in the bathroom.
A stickup in the bathroom never goes down well.
Its a rough neighbourhood and we can see why.
Put your hands where you need them,
beside yourself maybe-
you’ll find something.

And you think you need a KEY?
A language, inside and outside, you are the narrator.
Are we writing for ourselves or others?
The skill, finess and form.
Dig deeper. Geeker.
Geeky-errr.
Get out. Horror of hot headed, unheard of heralds of homework haunt my homely happiness. Like the french “HANDS DOWN”.
Close your eyes and kiss that goodbye, french…

So what i’m trying to say it “can you pull it off”.
and by that i’m talking about how you write.
And the pen is not a symbol for anything else.
I mean- that your writing and referencing a Leonard Cohen song is all fine and dandy , while this poor young interrupter can’t use the word ganked.
I’ll lay a trap for you all there and probably hotly debate over my own thoughts with yours all imaginary.

He wrote about Leonard.
You wrote about Leo.
You were a shortcut to play.
His was grief and death.
You’re all talking about the same thing.
I will defend you both unequally.
My prejudice wig of human caring.
Philosophy of aught, naught and tort.

U

Do you believe things can be infinite? Infinite largeness, Infinite smallness.

Therefore nothing ever touches. There is only spaces that can be quantified on a silly scale. 

Apricot flipping.

Mie- pose

T-rex Philosopher.

Are you lost

The unfinished text then imbibes from the library of all works, robs the graves of the greats, crosses thresholds with a piercing vision, stops to smell the roses in their thousands, looks death in the face, depicts land, sky and sea, loses the reader and then puts a map in their hand, plays the role of lover, then runs away, hiding in caves to then cross mountaintops spanning miles and miles. A text must reach out, it is the incarnation of children, family, nature, and humour, from the clouded and clear sky to the rivers and arid plains. It’s the ability to know, to climb with courage, swim or sometimes excavate. Texts form the embalmed relics of minds in writing, they are the eternal search for lostness through learning and love.

Dry writ for here

Sitting thinking-Of you, about you. 

Wanting you, all of you. 

Impatience with myself. Airhead that I am. 

I got a job today. 

The future looks bright.

Sunshine and work. 

Three days on.

Money, people, friends.

Time and trading.

All dribble. 

A drop 

Followed by a drip.

That I am. 

Always running, 

Trying too hard.

Wanting something real

And only blooming as something really,

Really unpleasant.

Your warm, smooth weirdness. In the morning comfort. 

Pressed between my arms, between the sheets. Uncrusted, listed, lusted love.

Holding off,

And holding on- 

Hearts in twine

Nothing going wrong. And we click.

Fingers, tongues: at one another. Beautiful pink flowers, folded to reveal the deadwoods and thin veneer of reality transposed upon something else. True detail in an image escapes me as I go blank. 

Staring into the light of your face. Seeing the space between your eyes. The smile revealing your way and the ghost of death that fades in and out. I catch it just, sometimes. A fleeting worry in the back of my mind. I see your skeleton. Not unlike those of the carnival, but your blue eyes, jar me. My desires fold like the leaf. Details shown, a mingled passage of time. Trusting me. Respecting me.

You know how to turn me: on on on. More, please. Wanting loving. And the sweat speaks, and frantic rubbing. Possessed absence in one another. Arms burning, backs frigid. Pouring down. Knees hot, more more more-please. 

Oh my god..

Liking lends loving, leading lives like lush lunatics, limply loosening lapels, labelling liquid lost, lisping lurching lilting lithe lollies. Lupin lesbian, lassoed lassie, leg-less liable lymph licking lady. Mmmmm.

Silence is golden.

Silence is my own special kind of violence sometimes.
It grates at me, and like a heart on a sleeve-
the cutting begins. Thin skin peels, pastes, reddening rind.

A Chinese burn, as I explore other paths.
Void void void.
A void opens up, a rent in my space and time.
relations to myself. Deadening.
A cost of a plaque and an unfathomable hurt.
Thanks.
you’re welcome.
And I’ve been pioneering you say.
Trying to explore new paths into conversation.
Thanks for that.
you’re welcome.
And we’re all so obliged.
and my eyes look down as you talk of me.
And the pants that were handed down from Coriolanus makes me step.
It makes me stop. Sick, both welcome and unwelcome relief that you have painted.
Painted in your words. Cosplay. Neither true nor equipped for being-ness.

The coffee is as potent as I am fidgety. Digits scroll in a matrix.
Fingers count. Both hands scrolling a stalling.
Battery less cars spit volumes of a words ending.
Strangers look on in obvious aware disgust.
Their break disturbed. A break, respite broken.
My stomach is full again.
Unwelcome erections plague this month.
A haze and laze of unwant.
Closeness and pleasure and elevation make for a daily distance.
I am numb for all things because of your company.
Nothing else matters.
I’m so hungry. Famished. Fallen and worried.
Lazy and impotent. Empty, fucked.
And the void, to avoid it I eat-
no I gorge. A great crevasse of hunger creases my brow.
It makes me shuffle my feet, wink both my eyes and fall.
I wake early, sad and dismissed with the day.
If I just get through today and start again.
“If I”
All I need to do it get out the door and start the day, some other way.
Hiding from people.
Sunshine.
A rest, a walk, a run, yoga, action action action.
Cut cut cut.
The choice we all face, sweet relief from the self inflicted.
Plain stupid. Pain, pleasure tastes and wonderful closeness.
A warmth runs through me, or over me?
As water. Blood, think with worry seeping into my whites.
A final resting place.
Bed and all, upturned in my crying.
This hose, tap turned all the way up.
Close-wize. Natural metaphors not working their magic on me anymore.
No distinctions. Just a bad brain and loss of topic.
My category. Human, sharing so much in common with the rest.
But i’ve lost myself. And the mirror tells me how I look.
While I feel busted, leaking and frail.
Jesting disjointed meaning rests malign in its definition.
Here is where I stand, while you see me white and sitting.
I am covered, full of blood. Weeping the only water that doesn’t matter.
If I tell you this story you will hear different to what I speak.
You will remember listingly a group of things that you expected.
If I may impart one unexpected thing then there it is, my one gem of today.
Winking one eye, a half-seen vision of a perspective truth.
Outside of yourself, a meeting of you and I.
In this inherited world, it’s not the voice that commands the story but the ear.

Fooley

Trying to log in.
Wasted in the morning.
Greek words – and the art of generals.
And my name says it all.
The middle of my name.
“my middle name”
Disconnected brain from body.
Able self I am not.
A wallowing loveablelessness.