Hearing. Mourning.

I put on clothes. They have a past, they have meaning.
Gifts from family members. Dear to my heart.
I look for connections between things;
things out there, actions, reactions, specimens, examples.
In the ether, the cosmos. The shapes of words.
Their beginning letter, the function of them towards meaning.
Nothing has meaning.
Human kindness and interactions! Surely.
Sure enough. Surely surely.
But we are limited by form. By the existence of forms.
I find myself prickling at the need, yet my loss for invention.
My eyes, peering over.
Peering at.
Looking at a distance. A stretch of space I could measure out if I had the will for it.
The want.

“I’m over insided”. That’s what she said.
She, the girl, woman, person that I don’t really know.
I asked, after telling her I was “OK”, that I didn’t know what that meant.
She’d “been inside all day”.
I spoke of how I wanted to go to the beach.

I bumped into some people I knew later that day. I lied. I exaggerated.
I’d done it before. Its just, that conversations of the nature where you can embellish, well- I suppose I choose to detract from their meaning.
Its a narration of the thought, its a sick twist, underlining the matter.

Some of the people I message. Jasper, Julia – didn’t respond.
Jasperation I called him.
Ju-Ju, I called her.
I asked about yoga, their lack of response suggests that I “find my own path”.
What a selfish crowd. It makes my ducts flood.
My neck withers and wilts, must I look up to save face. Give a moment for the thoughts to drain down the back. Over the waterfall, the sink of my neck. Emptying into the eddies of my trunk and limbs.

I’m searching still. Sitting, staring, peering, looking.
Using all that i’ve observed, heard and felt. I’m swirling it all together in my pot of a mind. Black thoughts, trying- piecing.
Thinking of ways to reduce mystery to simplicity and pierce into the fabric of natural order. Using these tools! These tools of words.
Thinking in order. Associating one object to another.
Simplifying, and reducing where I can, bringing together things that aren’t the same and seeing them as one. As they are or might be on another scale.
I have no scale!
This Horten Heard A Who.
This physic.
“UNDERSTANDING MODELS” will be the book title.
All things, unique, grande and small are one and the same.
Sometimes, something, somehow, somewhat, somewhat is someother.
And that other is all.
And I will live to see and feel some of it true.
But not all.
So much is lost, and the cold sets in.
I stretch and grow old, without the possibility of regeneration.
Plant a potato on my grave. Scatter my ashes as you want.
To the wind or as a fertilizer.
I will have will for nothing more.
We should keep track of ourselves, maybe that will change how we evolve for better.
Cheese knives.
Models. Systems, plans, rules, organisations.
Emotions, feelings, reactions, words, sight, smell, hearing, feeling, taste, altered, normalized.
Think how you will, the distance unmeasured in the kitchen.
The flowers from the funeral growing old themselves, go un-smelt by me.
They wither, I look at the ceiling. Trying to comprehend a black hole.
Is it cancer?
Are we men and women two parts of a virus? No, we’re not like a virus. We are alive.
Are cells in their basic forms like viruses? What does bacteria do? If I kiss you with an open mouth am I trying to kill you? Do we react so badly to one-another?

What would happen if I spent 4 days in water. Does water eventually erode you? When would the sore appear? Would I die? Just a tank, up to my neck. What would my skin do? How would I feel?
Basic human needs. Eat, drink, defecate, urinate, word-ate.
And how you view all things, what you’ve heard, what you’re willing to share at the dinner table, what you wear on your sleeve.
Like sleet. I’d rather sleep.
Hollow breaths. Tired mind, swirling mind.
Self talk, at a loss to the patterns that emerge. In gravity. The helix, the symmetry, the natural forces, the mathematics, the shape of a circle is unnatural. The center, the centre: it doesn’t exist.
Its not graphable, its not the model, its not real.
Its a construct. Very imaginative. Points on a board.
Bored I am, without invention and discovery we are just entertaining ourselves.
Our identities, our sex, our money.
Masturbation, self love, loathsome pass times, sickness, disease, loss.
We are lost, waiting for others to give us discovery.
eternal youth, problem solving minds for the wanton entertainment driven.
I sweat.
I swear to myself over a scalding black coffee.
The heat disperses itself. Sweat wipes down my body.
Whipping myself for my hypocrisy.
Drink driving talk kills me.
Mistakes, gambles, accidents, fear, death and the human plague.
Our polluted minds of good and evil-
The reaction to all sorts of torture.
Everything. To have been born, to wait out the some.
The sum of this whole.
The hole, void of emotion.
Black words, on black background spill forth from our dilated pupils.
No resentment, just wide eyes fascination at a feeling that is our thoughts without words.
Natural and pre-dating shapes, symbols or models for shared understanding.
Lost blackness, runs down my back.
Pools for eyes.
Vision for I.
Penny for my thoughts? I dream of death.
Call the boatsman, on his curious flotsam.
This rabble racket, dropping and dripping in my mind.
Do you mind, slowing down, hurrying up.
Paddle as you may, you never learn to swim.
Soon the water erodes, and its not the key to eternal life.
Its not beauty, its not fair or just.
Its just the end.
Something you cannot fend.
It happens, it happened.
She’s gone, nothing’s wrong or wronged.
This trident in this tyrant its pronged-
piercing me.
Us, us three.

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