Pofodo – The poet.
Pafodo – The patient
Pifodo – The lazy
Pefodo – The worker
Pufodo – The breather
Pyfodo – The fighter.
Phfodo – The thinker
Today I sat.
At a screen.
Sore back, glum.
Gloomy, down, sad.
Up and down.
Hot and cold.
Interchangeable words for.
Word for proper nouns.
For proper thoughts, thoughts.
Echoes echos echo.
Tea and biscuits.
Food, regrets. Rest,
relaxation. Ability to recover and love one’s self.
And to think: come on over and let me have you.
Lets use eachother.
Relax, like cats.
The world is full of flakes.
Let me put my dick in you.
Let me lick you and love your body.
not your mind, not your time.
let me wash.
I’ll wash, I’ll relax.
No yoga, meditate some other way.
Stress and mental battles.
Lying to oneself.
Aggregate, falling down.
Expectations. Failure and melting moments.
I am the butter that sinks the biscuit.
The animal, frailty.
Poison volunteer of a corrupt and hungry babe.
The teat; teased and bitten.
Harsh, boils and fitful squirts.
My pessimistic alienation.
Too well fed for cynicism.
Angry, jealous try-hard.
Of all things but many.
Many, many mistakes.
Foot to foot,
to heel, and arse.
Laden and growing fat.
Tired eyes, angry ears and upbringing.
A little bump to the left.
Stuck, in behind my ear.
Could be cancer.
The browning more. Violent, asking and angry.
So, so much has been asked of me.
My stomach yields nothing.
Angry fitful yawns,
wretched and taxing.
No curtain can blot out the caliber.
Long rifled sheets.
Cheat us of our deaths.
The ritual act of love,
sacrificing our time for upbringing.
Our dissolution; reaching out with both hands patiently.
Pulling plastic over our shafted lives.
Capturing cities of our own righteousness.
Princely kings, kinds and all kinds.
Broken and resentful.
Arched backs, slick.
Painful, enjoyable waves.
Riding slick, shallows in greater depths.
Nothingness greets us.
Gaping, gasping holes.
A phenomenon too uncommon now.
That edge, self talk.
Lying to myself again.
Let me soak in a bath.
Warm. Reading. Relaxed.
Angry for want of a day, of tumbling fields without barriers.
It’d be nice.
Real nice to do this with more purpose.
Where has my scope gone.
Give me time, let me read.
So so much to read.
And music, and the fears of not connecting.
And to over think.
and be so fragile, and broken and emotional.
To be rentable.
Afraid of connection.
Suffering from a stagnacy, a stuckness, not capturing moments as I should.
Missing the things I never regret and plowing into the skittles like a newborn.
Let me ask myself what I want.
what I need, and if i’m confident or happy to ask.
I feel flat and I don’t want to ask you about things that you weren’t willing to share. Like your wedding. Like your feelings.
You’re shallow. Like i’m shallow.
What I see in you I try to cut from myself.
And the hypocrisy and linkage kills me.
It bubbles and boils and sticks to me like the resin of the first rubber tree.
Like semen in a bath of cold water.
Brown sugar in the foil of a baked apple.
The party string. The vibe shifts and rifts and rents me.
I am mutilated.
Distant without possibility of recovery.
Bush shacks. Hard work, without pay.
Sitting, sitting, sitting.
Let me run away.
I said it again.
But I won’t. I’ll stay and stress about the common things.
This shit. Smearing over me. Burying me so that I may fossilize.
Reptilian blood coursing through a spring.
Re-endangered spirit of a cursed species.
No scope for its own world, no plausibility or sense for consistency.
We are bugged.
Broken in our melting form.
Rubber, sugar, oven and all.
we are bugged.
I am cursing.
Should I be?
Am I cursed.