Though its darker than December.
Longitude and latitude dictate the amount of light we get. Seasonally, December could be either. But it’s darker than both options we assume.
Where are you?

And its raining.
And i’m looking for someone, through friends of friends.
And i’m pent up.
Sore, tightly bound and wound in swound, lapping at me like the ocean waves.
The current, I am in, makes me anxious.
thoughtful and forgetful. Ready and impatient.
Worrysome and other people irksome.

I should practice writing on a topic perhaps.
Have some lineage. Have some discipline.
More functional, more fitness.

Father wakes up early.
He’s gone, out the door before 8.
I worry about his left leg, his limp isn’t getting any better.

The rain on the iron roof makes me think of exes.
My mosquito bites itch.
I feel an overwhelming desire to wash all of my sheets.

The coffee was savory. Citrus toward bitter.
The green tea is earthy, hints of bamboo, silty.
I watched a female comedian yesterday. She was good.

I forget people’s names.
I make dinner while I eat breakfast, I say yes to friends.
Asking friends if they are busy later.

My brother turns 30.
I felt the stress of wanting to buy him a gift.
Something personal, and yet I couldn’t possible dig a well within myself.

Instead I ate lots of food and rested.
A real worry for a young man like me.
And here I am wondering at my shallowness- so many things to do.

And more to say.
More and more and more.
It should never stop.

But a considered approach is warranted.
Comedy is like semen.
I offer it to you guys freely.

If I put it in the right place, something will grow inside you.
I’m only here to make the women laugh apparently.
[aside] I’m single – nobody loves me.

I’m probably unlovable.
Semen. Such a happy word, I reckon.
Put in the right place, the laughter will grow.

Pretty jovial thought. If you put it somewhere wrong.
Like on your clothes, it’ll annoy you.
Eat away at both of us, make you feel sick.

Eat away at you, sounds like I have acid jizz.
Imagine that. Put behind bars? No problem, these walls cannot hold me!
Get Sherlock Holmes on the line.

Massages are all booked!
Sons of guns. Remedial, bollocks.
Knots and relaxation. No freedom. No therapy.

Today i’ll be selling cheese in the rain.
Today I might see Claire and some others for a social beer in the park.
I’ll pay my way first though.

So stiff, so cold. Tired eyes.
In-need of a reset. A pamper. A self loving afternoon.
Rest and recovery.

The porridge of our daily lives.
Something to protect. Immune system, boosted.
The complex inner workings of our lives.

The narrative that rolls and folds upon itself,
like a fresh loaf of bread. Kneaded and pressed.
Baked, arise. Renewed. Tanned a golden brown.

Flaked with goodness of oats and seeds.
The smell of warmth, an invitation.
Like childbirth and its strange cravings.

Tomato juice, causes red hair.
No, no no no no. Nonsense.
One is not conditional of the other. Ad Hoc.

Creation. The creation story.
A snide remark here, an added hominem.
Homonym. Double meanings.

-Toilet-