Energy, loss, hunger flat, pat. Tired. Dinner. eat ears eat eat eat eat and eat.
And plan. And list, and complain and plan and never get anywhere. Unless you ditch everything and everyone and just run. Run from everyone. Have no relaiblility. No worries. Lose those chins. Move. Don’t have, or lend or swap or exchange time with anyone. Write freely. Think openly. Talk not, to yourself.
Speak to the centre of the earth ask for its gift of warmth.

Spelling shot. Worry not for your mother, father, sister or brother. Worry not for yourself. Get your mind, make it active. Admit your plans and you motives. You’re secrets are wasted. Write down your secrets. Make them plans. Inject joy and exhiliration into your own life. Your wild eyes. Dehydrated. Hungry always. Tired, fat, lazy. Surely, its as simple as having a bottle of water.
Headspins. Hunger. Shocking.

Travel. Plans, abash. a wash. sex. and youth. and fitness. and beauty and progress and comfort and warmth and friends and jealousy, embarrassment, impatience. Flirtatious. Fixed, free, stolen, love and hearts and blood and sideways looks of sheepish feelings. Skittish. enjoyment. Liberty.

A novel you always wanted to write.
The dreamscape you live most days.

You wonder what your bald boss would look like if he lost all of his excess weight. A goblin? The customers come in late. One has children and a wife that’s busy. They should go out. Explore the world. Move.
You know you have energy. But how is it stored?
Where is your own motivation?
You are drained.
You are in the gutter.
You need to break your chains.
Bound up and angry. Frightened.
Life is short. You’ve got to get away Patrick.
YOU have TO. Admitt to others? How could they understand or give you advice?
Look at your bus tickets. Toyed with that idea at a young age, didn’t you. Free yourself from that. Run.
RUN to where you need to be. Every day. Run.
Jog to work.
Jog you fat, lazy pathetic excuse of a young man.
Jiggle and uncontrolled.
Mind not in charge.
Drone. Moron. Animal.
Mood based.
Pathetic, frightened. Worried about scholarships and honesty and admitting and talking and telling.
The spreading of legs.
Fucked by the world.
Murdered. Sperm, dried out, wasted.
Sun-bleached. Washed away. down the drain with the spiders and silver fish.
With your childhood dreams and the time you will never have to read all those books and listen to all that music.
New inventors?
Television and sports?
Shows? Uninspired drivvel.
The un-educated toil of claggard-society.
The glue that binds us is the shit that we all excrete and consume.
We say the many names. Joining hands. Teeth and mouth stained.
Poisoned in out circle of similarity.
Stagnant. Ideals of chipboard. Plaster over the past.
The skills we had, the many functions and curiosities that we never ask, explain or seek out. Stifling. I chase the cold. But I know my productivity and depression lays in wait, layers of weight.
My winter coat.
This peasant. ZOUNDS!
He should hibernate.
Throw your buckets to the street.
Watch the tumultuous flow of poverty and charmless activity that we call society evolved.
My my how we have changed.
I’m so full of fear i’m afraid.
So unaccepting, i’m stagnant.
So boring i’m stuck.
So stuck, i’m confused.
So startled by my lack of progress I feel to open up my own head would be the only way to find a synaps. Snap my neck and hold between thumb and forfinger what it is to be alive. Hold only, the one true thought. The go button. The start. The ignition. The circle. The vessel. The vast iris to my own conition.

“what ever is the matter”
I don’t know I need to get a lot off my chest.
I need to grieve.
Let it all go.
Shake my limbs.
Exercise. The loop isn’t being completed.
This winter is taking its toll on me.
Run- run run run run.
Into the sun sun sun sun.

Press the reset.
I need a respawn.
New fresh bars.
This bard needs a new song.
More sonnets.
Poems and music.
Brain space.
Acceptance, freedom, direction, autonomy.
Cognitive armageddon.
Somebody save me from myself;
what are all these cravings?
Why can’t I be on the up.
Why must I dip.

“Life is all dips and troughs” –
My own past. Shall I go & vomit?
Homebrand feelings.
Packaged like everything else.
Made in and of nothing special.
Please recycle.

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