Your basket of life
Can it float in an ocean
Like lockers of love.
Tonight is a strife
What a tragic commotion
The heavens above!
Goodness! Such a fuss.
Outrage and irritation
Hit me with a bus
“I’m losing the plot”
Moment of degradation
The work was forgot
Was it of import?
I guess we’ll see tomorrow
Night to bright in sort.
I felt grande today, I exercised greatly, I achieved, I was motivated and energetic and impulsive and chatty and I ran with energy like my knee had never been.
Never been an issue. Like I’d run and never slow down.
I read some philosophical nonsense and I was inspired, I wanted to write; there and then. Reply! Reply in full, until the ink in my pen dried up, the batteries of my light died, the table eroded, my ideas explained thoughts and forms and all fundamentals of any idea or ideal were rectified or shown in full. Spelling mistakes, breathless ideas that sprout further ideas. Angry arguments FEELINGS. Feelings on a page. Ask for feelings on a page and you will receive. Mumbo jumbo, waxy genius, impoverished emplore-able understated overstated gibberish, opinions, functions from maths and the tide of the ocean converging in a river of red and green and blue and black. Until the night overwhelms and humanity sleeps, truly sleeps because all ideas have been thought and there is nothing less. Only for the editors. And the editors would work around the clock to find meaning and finally when they were done they would eat. But they would be blind. Blind because I would not have stopped I would have dug myself a hole my hands bearing blisters. Rags and riches passed and present. My lips cracked bleeding should i smile. The elements rage above as humanity furthers itself in any way the elected and unelected leaders and fighters and dictators and zookeepers should see fit. And fight. Scrap battle and battle for scraps and wraps for macdonalds would have some say in something, the gluttons of the world with their energy would say something or maybe just laugh. The idea of time would be lost and dark would rule. Electricity lost, power gained through other means. Clients of giants, under rocks they look only to find briefly a new life. But it burrows and all that is left is a dry husk of an ecosystem once fertile. The survivors burrowed, borrowed time is what we are living upon and we arent giving it back! No not us. The time we have is out diamond in the rough our wheeleless skateraft that may or may not take everyting we dont care about truly to the horizon and even if it breaks down someone else will pick up the burden because our burden is the same. The vacuum continues and. I wonder from my hole if this was real and how long are my nails did i chew them absentmindedly was i writing with a pen or did i make all of that up. How do i feel? Is it gone? Am i empty now? When will my lights go out, should they go out how should we all feel. Will the earth sigh for me. I don’t think so. China may piss a river in a day but whether or not they give a squirt is entirely not my goal. I am so small.
My ideals and ideas are so tiny. How do i capture that world. Are we afraid of failure? What happens when i run out of ink. When there is nothing left to say, record. Must i go on? Must i finish. What can i feel but hollow. Unfulfilled
UNFURFILLED. Drown me in melted gold and dig me out so that three eyed monsters from space 18 years from now will look upon me and call me beautiful. Call up someone 9 degrees of separation from me and let them know i’ve passed. Away?
There must be something in these halogen lights
I feel it coming for me. I can smell it. My anxious spirit writhes. But my temperature remains, the sun in its smug blinding red jacket of feathers and sequin will rise tomorrow after a long listless night of fucking and truly we are, we like him, HIM, the sun a man… Pathetic. Size matters sun. You’re a compendium! The funkenwagnals! The font that this is written with, the cold parchment this could be written upon and i curse you. That curse is a blessing though because it just carries on. IT. It it it.
This is it. It is so many things. If i get a problem. IT. Call “I” call “T”. See who comes first. They’ll tell you to check the “O” and check the “N” and then The “o” and the “f” and the other “f”.
And you might get back to producing something. And i might clamber out of this hole. My nails are long. My point is nails. I am a nail. A nail in the coffin seems too bleak, too obvious, too cliche. Hit the nail on the head? On the contrary. Lets be contrary shall we. Nailed it. Snailed it. Stale frail gale rail revile beguile smile file for later alligator mission stater hater of my own work i hate how i’ve come to this… and china… I’m sorry i don’t know what. Tomorrow is a new day. The lights in my head still flash, this writing. the opposite to writers block.
Both are terrible. Bring me my editors. There must be some wisdom in here somewhere.