That thing

Its here,
conversation.
and my lack of patience.
A presence of mind to think through it all.
Laden, heavy.
Weighed down with bread and all sorts.
A meal with the gods is shared.
The big toe of mine slightly sore-
dead flesh of the exterior grates as the outside of a wheel of cheese.
Hesitant.

If only I could say it all.
My emotion bubbles and I spiral in wonder.
Speaking first and experiencing later.
The import and rumination given to silence.
“yes yes of course”.
Killed dogs and talk of conversation being the same.
Samey.
I needed another angle, some additional depth.
It was mind numbing. Nothing but horror and horrible things.
My shit mind, lost in its cares.
Distracted easily.
Moving on quickly.
Joking if someone says something seriously.
Derailed.
Playful annoyances.
Guilted headaches, mark my fitness.
This unripe thought and imperfect brow. Lifted high above.
And the wholeness of the world’s catastophe.
The scope of my wonder at how bad it all as.
Shabby cheeked luxury and rotted fettid eyes cast from their sockets.
Set like fridged jelly. Brain numbed. Isolated instances of pain in my jaw.
The periods or rest and worry and work and practice.
Shallow hard-work, perhaps I should work smart and not hard.
Do your readings.
Don’t be distracted.
Love calling my name.
“I really like you”
spunk flows in our contract.
Money owing. Impatience, sickness, holding us all back.
A flipping mind of imperfection.
Infectious evils, sickness and an eternal holiday.
Working so hard that my investments might just paradox into juxtaposed ruination.
Starve yourself to success.
glee always into radical headache of lust, love, luxury and euphoria.
Lick your fingers and fuck me.

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