A sickness lays inside me-
Who is he. Why do I listen?
recommending, pointing saying. Yellow shirt.
red red red. What do you think of the colour red?
What do you think of red? Can you patent red?
Red is within me. I draw on it. With it.
It pulses and hides my feelings.
Like a defeated and angry mop.
Pointing, patient. Sickness.
Pouting? Queer. Really.
And all it takes is enough rope and a lot of perseverance.
Stalker-esque I am. I feel humbled. I wish it wasn’t so.
No power, not good for me. My own green hands, the bottle that leaks.
The furtive glances.
The corner of my darkst understanding.
Mating rituals. Trust and all the diabolic.
Tables wilt and smiles fade and my emotional state washes.
Rowing.
Exams of dandy lane.
Indian wisdom. Feeling and fucking felt like lost lists of want.
And the weird stranger piling books on the evening table.
White worming skin and the pointless-ness of the rearing process.
Hurting like blood relations, foiled in the destructive stance.
How ever did we last this long? “those steps have claimed lives”.
And it is, it is; you have plenty of time.
The building blocks that cripple us are the ones we stand firmest upon.
I wish it could be more simple and my love for you was closer to something with shape.
Stopping my heart. Beating through my chest- no touching.
No love lost. Just a want that cannot be dispelled.
Conflicted passions lie to me in the evening and wrestle my candid peace.
Stuck hopes. Sucking face and violent run-away vehicles purchase a lenience in my opportune veins. Stuck – stopped. Rotting peace.
Dry lips and lacking words.
“hierarchy, story. Representation, dismissal, showing feeling association, the words you speak are an otherworldly death”
A fevered reserve of dispassionate uncaring clinches and ticks at my phone reading life stealing amicable steely seething sickness.
I am feroucious. Stealing, and steeling myself unto others. Afraid of groups. Miserable in what I do. Concerned, job starting, inconsiderate foil ripples in the breeze. I can’t concerntrate. I am lost. Without hope.
Just needing to read, my writing all scattered and poignant for none.
Shifting shithead. Shift-faced, toilet going. Untrustworthy body of sitting and sulking and fucking everything and everyone up.
Squid of the abyss. Drawing on everyone. Skulking, hating, unfortunate.
Why can’t we just be won. Your stupid hair. My turgid stare, obviously nothingness in all that I wish I had spoken. The cold chill that sets in my flesh. Feathering my hairs. Blonde and forgetful. Naive. Nave. Knave. naff.
Older and older, the chances limiting, the flexibility fusing.
Its all this fussing over fucking bullshit.
As productive and jizzing into the wind. Laughing and throwing oneself overboard.
Into the ocean without a mark for memory. High seas. “Write that down”.
My poor keyboard, isn’t mine anymore. The touchpad belongs to the dirty hands of every other person. Infections in actual fact. The type of person I am, spilling it all to the wind, throwing it among all the other waves. The ripple of recognition as I am you and everyone else is above you. The rains coming down now; so I could be crying like the creator. Heavens above has not a care as such- yet we come from the earth and the pitfall of deep blue welcomes you as any grave, though you’ll float a while longer after you’re inhaled and taken it all in. Falling to my knees, the bruised ego and boiling mind will, like un-plowed ground bubble and overflow. Grow callus and lumped, steeped in implicit agony bared by broken unconsciousness. How can any more sleep possibly put me in good stead? The honesty of opinion of others. The pregnant questions of sharing seeds and spilling hard truths about all that we are on an ordinary raining day.

Diving into it all, looking up at the dappled sheets. The whitewash, the sound of the engine beating off in the distance. You are washed, unclean, glasses off. Nude stinging vision of the unwanted child. A deep-set depression of somebody else wanting you dead. Plans having been made, I shuffle off the planet. Skulking and asking for more. No time, no perspective or scope.
The scales change when you’re under water, the poisoned bruise of somebody else. No ownership. No hardship. Just drown yourself in it all.