Silence is my own special kind of violence sometimes.
It grates at me, and like a heart on a sleeve-
the cutting begins. Thin skin peels, pastes, reddening rind.
A Chinese burn, as I explore other paths.
Void void void.
A void opens up, a rent in my space and time.
relations to myself. Deadening.
A cost of a plaque and an unfathomable hurt.
And I’ve been pioneering you say.
Trying to explore new paths into conversation.
Thanks for that.
And we’re all so obliged.
and my eyes look down as you talk of me.
And the pants that were handed down from Coriolanus makes me step.
It makes me stop. Sick, both welcome and unwelcome relief that you have painted.
Painted in your words. Cosplay. Neither true nor equipped for being-ness.
The coffee is as potent as I am fidgety. Digits scroll in a matrix.
Fingers count. Both hands scrolling a stalling.
Battery less cars spit volumes of a words ending.
Strangers look on in obvious aware disgust.
Their break disturbed. A break, respite broken.
My stomach is full again.
Unwelcome erections plague this month.
A haze and laze of unwant.
Closeness and pleasure and elevation make for a daily distance.
I am numb for all things because of your company.
Nothing else matters.
I’m so hungry. Famished. Fallen and worried.
Lazy and impotent. Empty, fucked.
And the void, to avoid it I eat-
no I gorge. A great crevasse of hunger creases my brow.
It makes me shuffle my feet, wink both my eyes and fall.
I wake early, sad and dismissed with the day.
If I just get through today and start again.
All I need to do it get out the door and start the day, some other way.
Hiding from people.
A rest, a walk, a run, yoga, action action action.
Cut cut cut.
The choice we all face, sweet relief from the self inflicted.
Plain stupid. Pain, pleasure tastes and wonderful closeness.
A warmth runs through me, or over me?
As water. Blood, think with worry seeping into my whites.
A final resting place.
Bed and all, upturned in my crying.
This hose, tap turned all the way up.
Close-wize. Natural metaphors not working their magic on me anymore.
No distinctions. Just a bad brain and loss of topic.
My category. Human, sharing so much in common with the rest.
But i’ve lost myself. And the mirror tells me how I look.
While I feel busted, leaking and frail.
Jesting disjointed meaning rests malign in its definition.
Here is where I stand, while you see me white and sitting.
I am covered, full of blood. Weeping the only water that doesn’t matter.
If I tell you this story you will hear different to what I speak.
You will remember listingly a group of things that you expected.
If I may impart one unexpected thing then there it is, my one gem of today.
Winking one eye, a half-seen vision of a perspective truth.
Outside of yourself, a meeting of you and I.
In this inherited world, it’s not the voice that commands the story but the ear.