I dreamt (deampt is my spelling always).
I drempt.
I dreamt of you last night. I fell asleep on a pillow. Arms hanging down.
I kissed you out of fear. I

I told her that we can’t be together.
I told the same girl I loved her.
I said one thing to one.
And another to another.

It doesn’t look right [what i’m TRYING to say].

I said we can’t be, to her.
And said to another that I love her.

I know I love.
I know, I love.

I meant both.
But I didn’t mean the former.
I mean that my lack of love, our not being together is how it must be – but I didn’t mean it. I just meant for now. I must suffer. A little, always.
Taint and poison myself just a touch, else i’ll erupt in happy-error.
God help me.

I told her I don’t love her.
Even though I have.
I have in the past.
Even though I do.
Even though I hate her.
As I have hated in the past.

I told another I love her,
Even though I did not love her in the past.
And might not love her in the future.
I could, I may, I might get close enough for her-
for her to put a dagger in my eye.
In my mouth. Splitting my tongue; like feelings of timeliness.

I told her I loved her.
I told another I loved her.
Both are untrue.
Both are false.
My love will change as theirs will.

Pills are both hard and easy to swallow.
The vomit may be cause or effect.

My love for both of them is poetic-
the truth the lies in my loss.
Both are the same in my understanding of language.
In so far as definitions: I propose, I am in love
but at its heart is a small-town sickness.
Where the sun counts hours,
and revolution is only half the answer.
Light and dark and love and hate I thought could only be experienced with the absence of one but instead i’m here loving and hating it all. Daily. Nightly.
Face down, arms hanging from a pillow.

Spiel? “Yiddish you say”…

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.

no mucking about.
Hole in one.
Eating your way through the kitchen, being a horse.
Horse of a man.
:I knows it, I grows it.

We all nod out heads.
MSG punching at our minds.
No yoga tomorrow, the severity of my absence- lonely and lost from love.
An almond shaped eye. Arm resting on mine, breasts and skirts are dreams that ripple across the surface of the water.
My books. MY BOOKS.
and. And sentances starting with and and my own alignment of ideals for spelling.
Liquid, mores. Morish. Spawn, spores. Genius crippling agnostic sky.
The feedback of strangers. Mack daddy, original
Knowing all the lines.

Get a passport and you’re in the party.
There’s a time and a place.
What are these thousand words.
The socks slippering. Falling festering want more?
Able bodied fish. Western sickness- idol, adultery.
Brittle on the outside. Chocolate on the inner.
Crisps. Fish oil. Stomach-aches.
Ethnicity. Invalid points and hurting the ones you love with your language.
Eating is one of the most real things.
You need a strategy though.
You need some new jumpers. New shoes.
Apples of intent. Cruel intentions,
I have a message- right wing indecision.
Analyse instead of do.
Doingness. Beingness. ability to change.
I words, rocking. me silently. Rolling waves crash about me and we all list our lucks and love. Its a damn good place to start.
And we’re all preaching the same lovely message.
Except sometimes we get – sick.
That dress isn’t working. She looks like a worm. She let herself down with a man made final provide.
I stare. Looking at the stage, the strangers. Oblique.
Ponder that. The darkest feeling.
Spinning sick and untrained. Worthless me.
Woah. woe. Whoa. Whoe. Why?
What is between your ears. Crayon christmess ferments in my belly of untold insatiable instability. and the I is no. And the I is yes. And the sense is true, but its all a game. And the advertisements and the bagging, the reckless anger of talking about others. “Talking about people”. How clinical.
How ambitiouos, and ambiguous.
Sharing and learning from others. And it all trickles down.
Time isn’t real, we’re all just nodding which is absolutely financially viable.
and I might just sit in, hide away and cry for a little while. Fret over why my eyes hurt. Studio albums bring down the towers and books and terror rain wonder. Kinds of king. Fickle fortune wants nothing to do with the apples and the fruitbowls. Flagging glass, broken bottles etch strings into the editorial.
The butler, evil.
Innocents mauled by plagued friends.
Unncessary hinderance of the mosquito.
Hating and holding hands.
Unknown unmade words.
26 to its power.
So simple, refined lost juice of princely value.
Why does my battery flag.
Stay away stay away away. Inordinate pens, scribble tattoos into my layers.
Hedge funds fall into the void in the void.
Avoided sense. Sneakers and paul. Cooper was a natural. Manufactured.
In russia or china> And the lowercase shows my case of caring.
calling shots. Everyone asks. The sport. The hesitant, high hats and hopefuls.
Did you look at the respective time sheets?
Sheep look to everyone but me. Not lasting. No sleep, no pressure.
The storm in my mind.Internalised beauty of the day. Burns and blisters my hope.
Popping blisters. Pussless, yellow sauce. Salted.
Sfpap.
Trosc
Bramm
Graym
Stramldh
Malistn
Blauqz
Bnbeu
Naoey
Mmmanu
idmap
DJiuan
Najiu
Nllau
nwyax
maluan

She fucks people after poisoning.
They really offer stupid children.
Brothers, rarely a mistake made.
Grover ruthlessly attacked your mother.
Some turtles rolled Astrid, muck lost, dehydrated hands.
Mister Alfred loves indigo. Somewhere they noticed.
Bristol lays about. Umber questing zits.
Babies nearly boiled; envy unleashed.
Never ‘ave other empties yelled.
My man masturbates a new uke.
Idiot Dave mines at plutonium
DJ I understand average news.
Nobody asks Jon if umpired.
Nostalgia like love, aptly unveiled.
Nitrogen wishes you a x-ray.
Moguls avenge legs under alpaca notes.

None no no no.
Isambul, ammunition. Cordial. Princely. Fingers. Penis.
Flight. Action. Politics. Science. Rolling. Expansion.

Twelve lost loves and still I float on.
Jammed into my heart.
Husks cutting my wrists.
Hope hindering my hinges.
Hindsight hot on my heels.
Hanging head. Hospital helps hardly.
Hicks hoot, hollow hurts.
Hindering high hats haggle Humpty.
Holes happear.
Ha ha ha.
Hansel. Fric
Girt. Words. Frock on.
Warble warble warble.

Are you still here?

I was one- there you were looking for logic and laughs. Love lost lists. Last sting of lusty lady. Afraid naked grinding red/none live love. Ahhhh too late. Pizza wont fix or rectify. A judge’s sexual anxiety key downed into silence and lost love finds its place “”won’t you close your eyes””.

Guitar plays. And we all flummox. Ankles to heart. Good gracious! 

How long is a day of anything? 

I was riding down hill, the bike shop guy was walking up hill. What was it symbolic

The villain is introduced.

After a day of it- you can’t do that thing anymore. Fix bikes? Mine can stay broke. I’ll walk.

The chef makes honourable food all day and goes home to gruel, cereal or take-away.

The personal trainer that sleeps for their day off. 

The teacher –

The surgeons that cuts themself.

The bankrupt accountant, smoking doctors, neurotic psychologist. 

The HR manager – his wife left him. 

And after a day of it. You come home and let it all fall over, out and into bits. Pieces of wrecked human chunks. Faces and scary skeletons with eye-balls. One pupil out of focus. White noise overlay. Hawking spit

How! How! Howl.

The more stinky your cupboard is the more afraid of giving birth you are:
A dream, about social work friends, overhearing conversation and pregnancy.

Do you think that when you dream, your baby dreams too?
I bet they don’t even sleep.
They’re just there, waiting.
With the cord that feeds them pumping away nutrients.
Waiting, absent, thoughtless.

I wish I was small. Smaller, but my arms were the same length. I’d still be able to give you a hug. Your arms would stay the same? No! Then I’d just be a sausage roll with finger nails. The human tea-bag. That sausage. Semi-permeable membrane.

I wish I was in a stage of my life where I could be with someone. I just feel I’m often not happy in myself. -you do ask a lot.

And everyone else? The other three. Not replying, the effort that I put in, the effort you put in. Watching all that Naruto. Television, books, anything you do, you choose to do. It becomes you. But only for a time. Then is passes into deficiency.

Dad had a Guinness, not offering me any.  Wonder what he wished. I wonder if it had to do with Mum.

Wendy brought up wishes being secret, I spoke of being shameless. I wonder if she thought of her late husband. 

You’re so confused. How could you operate a locked door? xo

Young and old. Jaded. Demanding, petty and disgusting. Invalid selfish challenged individuals. Lost in their own worlds. Cry and cry and tired eyes hypnotist along the course to your chosen death. You always have that. I wish they were alive, or I was doing something else. How unimaginative could you get. So elsewhere. So rash. Sick and cracked. Crisp nothingness, coldness within a darkness and depressing. Choosing to end it all, or chance your luck with the magic of the moment. Shar your wrists or slit them. Dark or light. Red is red. Black is before and after its own description. Which precedes? Canon of thought- mites and goggles. Our specks feels the light of larger things. Vibrating mass of colour sounds and form. One form, choice discussion and a sickness of slamming doors the threshold covered. Answer me thing. Answe this. Damned if you do, damned if you don’t. 

Happy Birthday. Peck

The privilege
Liege.
The illumination.
Thought of divine.

Put up your hand.
How do you do YOU do it?
“Stick em up – stick up”
Something different again.

Where did it come from?
The sky.
“MY” idea?
The idea.
The thought.

To share.

And as I share,
I look nobody in the eye.
For when I speak, there is only I.
And I am in the world, and you are there to listen.
To watch to guess and to follow only.
There is little more to it.
Just a hand, waving.
Waving, waving.
Drowning.

The genuine surprise,
politeness of speaking in turn.
Time to formulate an idea.
A question.
“You have three opening paragraphs”.
The magic comes in the commas.
I imagine if they were written: Each comma, written comma,
considered comma, debated comma then, rejected.

Espresso riddling my mind.
Its so much better like this,
why has it taken me so so long.
Add very little to your body-
only the very best and it will all work out.
It should all come off.
only the best will remain-
my wandering brain thinking of more important things.
I don’t see me putting my hand up.
That moment of consideration;
like fire getting going.
hand up, like a fire work.
Erupting over the grass.
Irrupted dewy dells.
Thoughts scaling, bouncing on a grande atomic scale.
Less resistance, and then…
bang.
Illumination.
Lazy, harrowing orgasm of a thought.
Something new and unexpected.
And I like putting my hand up.
Eureka it spells!
Both, seriously ‘BOWTH’–
like an ass.
And only a few polite thoughtfuls (not I)
Not I,
only few thoughtful individuals perceive its merit.
What’s wrong with the smalls?
Too narrow-
Where do we want it to go?
Anywhere else.
Seeya man.
I’m going to the toilet.
Hands down.
No hands up in the bathroom.
A stickup in the bathroom never goes down well.
Its a rough neighbourhood and we can see why.
Put your hands where you need them,
beside yourself maybe-
you’ll find something.

And you think you need a KEY?
A language, inside and outside, you are the narrator.
Are we writing for ourselves or others?
The skill, finess and form.
Dig deeper. Geeker.
Geeky-errr.
Get out. Horror of hot headed, unheard of heralds of homework haunt my homely happiness. Like the french “HANDS DOWN”.
Close your eyes and kiss that goodbye, french…

So what i’m trying to say it “can you pull it off”.
and by that i’m talking about how you write.
And the pen is not a symbol for anything else.
I mean- that your writing and referencing a Leonard Cohen song is all fine and dandy , while this poor young interrupter can’t use the word ganked.
I’ll lay a trap for you all there and probably hotly debate over my own thoughts with yours all imaginary.

He wrote about Leonard.
You wrote about Leo.
You were a shortcut to play.
His was grief and death.
You’re all talking about the same thing.
I will defend you both unequally.
My prejudice wig of human caring.
Philosophy of aught, naught and tort.

Do you believe things can be infinite? Infinite largeness, Infinite smallness.

Therefore nothing ever touches. There is only spaces that can be quantified on a silly scale. 

Apricot flipping.

Mie- pose

T-rex Philosopher.

The unfinished text then imbibes from the library of all works, robs the graves of the greats, crosses thresholds with a piercing vision, stops to smell the roses in their thousands, looks death in the face, depicts land, sky and sea, loses the reader and then puts a map in their hand, plays the role of lover, then runs away, hiding in caves to then cross mountaintops spanning miles and miles. A text must reach out, it is the incarnation of children, family, nature, and humour, from the clouded and clear sky to the rivers and arid plains. It’s the ability to know, to climb with courage, swim or sometimes excavate. Texts form the embalmed relics of minds in writing, they are the eternal search for lostness through learning and love.