Be the flame, not the moth.

Global warming is so hot right now.

I like, like the idea of both.

Peaceful like the cow.

Montaigne:

You say horrible things
I laugh because I love you
And when you touch my skin, I think
This isn’t boring

I ate a salad today
I ate one yesterday too
You told me I was precious, now I think
That I am too

This feeling isn’t me. 6

Pubic hair, broken knee. 6

Splintered foot, bruised foot. 5

Through my awful groans. 5

Trusted pains all alone. 6

Fallen, cracked & chipped teeth 6

Where am I to start, the start? 7

This smiling being of my heart.7

Popping shuffling aches. 6

However might it end? 6

Gravel crossroads, we depend.7

Nails in arm in arm in arm. 7

Suffocating myself; helps. 7

Drowning grin of punish welts. 7

Stomach sick with bubbles. 6

Brained with tummy troubles. 6

“Have you still got the shits” she said from the doorway.

With you, yes.

“Yes” I said.

Later I would think how awful that sounded. Why say it like that? Coupled with the clicky voice of Australians from the big city.

Ra-ra-ra, just awful- making me feel worse.

I was thinking about getting out of bed and feeling better too… oh well.

Driving on the wrong side of the road again. In the correct lane, worrying. I don’t want to die, not necessarily. Not at all really. Put the fender to bed, wake up feeling refreshed. Alone.

It’s just like she always said. Following up, looking for love, crying in the mornings. Physical activity to exhaustion. A caprice, ant like-not strong enough and smothered by the hive mind. I’m yearning for something different fearful of the same.

Competition strikes me as something dangerous and harmful- a sweet spot untasted or felt. Moving without moving, my eyes haze and I worry about all the things I’ve compressed. The vacuum, that shrinks my flesh around bones. Time will not tell you you’re fate until it’s dying hour. Words in whisper, thoughts from nowhere. Then hollowing suction that winks blindly at each victim. A moment, another moment, the straight red line. Buried, left pocket. Buried, right pocket. Both palms empty. Skeletal fingers and cracked teeth. My heart just isn’t in it.

Set & Setting – let me have this breakthrough.

A tiny dose of the house of god, I can hear my heart beating. I’ll conjugate my past self until i’m put away.

Lindsay ate the last of the Migoreng. I was humbled, distraught and dishonered. I’d been toiling all day but there was no respite to be had in a bowl of steaming hot MSG noodles. My heart ached. By valves sqwonked on and off. My eyes scratched with parched tears in the air conditioned room. There was, no more Mr Mighers.