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will you meet me in the spaces
between our fingers

become tiny
atom-like

indivisible, but one

(and all the smaller pieces
that don't matter)


trade electrons

become
heavier
elements

----


a hollow note
crawls up
my throat

when you
depart

----


twenty minutes to dawn
(i know this because we've been here before)
in this moment, and this thing of arms and arms entwined, called embrace
this moment on soft notsosoft ground sheets

this look

it's the same
and in this moment

this moment is again

----



and your voices
singing as the past
ricocheting off
ceilings and walls
that do not house me
anymore, i hear you
strum afar
voices lamenting
as one.

your mother


----


when i
those
it's like
but i
that
i can't
what did
can you
know that
wait

----



you are farther away
when i am with you

than when we are
so far apart

----


i do not have a traditional clock
that could tick away the night
in even tones
to focus on
when i'm trying my hardest not to be awake

----

i only have digitalisations left
for metaphors

----

and i know
no matter what colours
what sounds
and what repetitions
available
i will never
be able
to run away
from your name

----


there is a fear
that smells
suspiciously
like hope


----


it's time the future
gave up


----


is it?

or is my mind
just trying
too hard

----


did i believe it was you
in those words

perhaps that wasn't
what mattered

----

the insides
of a flower
feels like
the need
to scream

----

if i was walking
and dropped these bus tickets
by accident

i wonder who would pick them up
(if at all)

i wonder what their shoes look like
how soft their fingers are

i wonder the thoughts they'd be thinking
when they read mine

----


i slipped once
grasped a hand
to stop from falling

easiest way to lose
a few years

----


i wasn't
and you knew it


----



the cold seems alive
when i open my eyes
and forget the warmth
is missing


----


sometimes there's a mask;
sometimes a ball
with whirlwind skirts
and shining black shoes
mist covered eyes
and the most ridiculous of costumes

seems to be mine
title = (truth)


[these are many little mini poems that were all written one after the other]


free-flow-fall thoughts

catchcatch
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you are an hour
sixty minutes of sixty tickings

   in this hour is every word
   youve ever said

i have an old wrist watch my father gave me
i say old, because five years is a long time when it is a quart of your life.

i use it to count you.

staring at the straight lines and reflecting the tubed light into a dancing circle on the wall
a spotlight for an ant
i imagine a woven straw hat and cane

   and dancing,

      there was always dancing wasnt there?
      there was, but it was never us that were dancing. its just a configuration.

   you know, of talk.

something we forgot all about.
       perhaps.

   perhaps.

       perhaps it wasnt forgetfulness but forced ignorance.

  you know, being stubborn, like stains you can never get out in the morning.

      real light shows up all the flaws.

  a shuffle, a pirouette, a rhythm of powerfully walking away.


i have an old watch, that my father gave me
i say old, because it no longer tells the time.

   it memorised time. it doesnt move.
      my brother told me all i had to do was keep moving.
         it would start up again.
           but i cant keep moving, with a dead watch.
             no tickings, no tickings.
               i use it to count you.

i have an old watch, that my father gave me
i say old, because thats what you say when things are broken.
Maybe I should have expanded on the idea a bit more. Still have to type up more of the story though.

Hmmm.

Watch still don't work.
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when i grow up i'm going to get bags and
bags of seeds and scatter them in the
rain all around my neighbourhood,
chuck them into empty lots.


i'm going to get a mirror
and write you are
beautiful
on the top of
it and put it on a wall
of a building on a busy street and

when i grow up i'm going
to write love letters to
strangers and big descriptions of
what i did today

and post them to street addresses i'll
make up and put toys and random
objects in people's letter boxes, like
a corkscrew and a live frog


and i'm going to get a white board
with a pen and put it in an alley way
and put a sticker saying my
thought of the day
on
the bottom of it then


me and my friend, we'll
stand on the opposites of the
street and pretend we're pulling
on a big rope and hope the car
crashes aren't too loud


and i'll draw a map of everywhere i've
seen wild fennel growing, and mint and
mulberries and take you there. i'll make

you a tea that stains your teeth with
the water we got for free from the
cafe down the street then


i'm going to go to sparks lane
and leave sparklers and
fireworks in there
and a lighter

and

i'm going to go to acdc lane
and write THEY SUCK in
gigantic scrawling letters
in comic sans font








.
( when i grow up i'm going to sigh
so my bed floats up to the ceiling
and i fall out through the window and
tumble into the sky )




this is one checklist i have.

what check-lists do you got?
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i am curious about you
of course, i'd like
to know how many sugars
if any, i think i'd like
to know how well

done. but i'm not sure
of course, if i should be
curious (or otherwise)

if it is indecent
of me to speculate

ponder how much milk
wonder what textures
you favour
in your
mouth


maybe i should wait
for the situation
to present itself

rather than spend
these days thinking
about
it
of course i love those two words. because i love mockery.
because i adore irony.


because this is too funny.


you dirty minded person.
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he said,

"

you taste kind of nice
ill give you a try.


"

i said,

"

its been too long
i know ive forgotten.


"

he said,

"

its just like riding a bike


"

i said,

"

i always used to crash


"
this isn't about sex.
heh i liked the first line. this amuses me, thats about all it does.
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how come perfection could be the smile of apology you made when you were always late

how come perfection could be
                                  could be
                                        would be
                                               cant be
                                                          was?
                                                          was.
                                                          wasnt.
                                                          was it?

   ricocheting back
          and forth
  velocity isnt lost each time
       the bounce has changed
   direction

          there arent enough sides inside
                my skull to play any proper games

        how come perfection is this perfect good bye
     splitting my sides
undoing
undone
   making me up from memory

       how come perfection is not me you
you me
       how come perfection isnt coming
                                                   going
       how come perfection is this goodbye

       how come perfection is all of these perfect lies

  how come
  how come

                                          how come its all so perfect.
perfect.

"ill live through you and make you what i never was if youre the best then maybe so am i compared to him compared to her im doing this for your own damned good youll make up for what i blew whats the problem why are you crying?"

random lyrics always bunch up in my head.

what is this, what is perfection?

a perfect head hold. a perfect encasement.

a box to place my weary head,
a box is all thats left,
a box is where my heart is
what my heart is
an empty box, left on a forgotten shelf.


drip all of my words someplace else.
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don't you forget that yesterday used to be a tomorrow.
you look at it.
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i'd like to seduce happiness
buy a new dress for contentedness
slut it up for ecstasy

pull down the sheets on frivolity
melt down the wax around sacrifice
excuse myself for rushing


i'd like to choreograph prayer
the build-up to the artifice
stop smiles from touching

begin the wake before the dawn
the black before the white; a pair
disbanded before a circle shared
one half realising, "i'm just another pawn."
This was a five minute prompt from ~LoveShotEyes that we were both unaware of at the time. But she liked this, and said I should post it, so here it is, in all its ugly rhyming glory.

Seducing happiness is completely her invention. Sometimes typographical errors make for lovely babbles.

:heart:

This will probably be scrapped shortly.
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i think im getting a bit too fidgety
staring silence onto walls again
looking through people,
through crowds
ignoring flickers of recognition like goldfish picking at flakes
from heaven,
or my fingertips

im walking with an aim of nothing
i shudder at the words im supposed to be saying
like its supposed to supposed to

and i could eat my apathy with ribbons
splattering sugar on the cement
[i didnt buy them]

i collect--much too many a thing
i collect people
in my head

short films of them

it doesnt matter that reality lies to me with
black and white shades of grey turning everything into a big mess of purple
when i like you

black when i like you

black when i dont
and everything is purple anyhow
i need no glasses to tell you i dont see the same colours as you

still frames
projections

but i know you
and i know you dont know me
i never knew you

please
im suffering from high doses of pleasantry

the easiness between us, is only me playing the game the way my mother taught me
with a smile and much bitterness


i could be edging out from under you
with every wayward thought
and placid as my holdings; eyelash gates to my delirium:
i never see you.
saw.
tense is only a state of mind.
calm down.
i wouldnt hit you, even if you asked so serenely
like daffodils.
like milk
through your nostrils


i think im getting a bit too fidgety again,
hiding behind dark strands and dark shades, traipsing along shadows in alleyways that stink of shit and new york-

at least, what i think every dirty big city would smell like

i could conclude solitude.
but i get too much, too little of  
that it would make such a slight difference to anything, everything
like this
i suppose

dents, little dents
i can still taste vanilla over the dry stretch of yawn in my throat
im still feeling the hot kisses of ice cubes bobbing as driftwood in my dissatisfaction with breathing

they look at her like buttercups
like milk maids all in a row
waiting to get the first fresh cream

bursting knuckles, forcing up bones white through skin
i hear many a thing in monotone
as if im living these still frames like a projection
or a book with little pictures in the corner, movement only emerging
as you
flick
them
all
back

in an illusion of movement.

watching my feet, my legs as i walk.
gives an illusion of movement.
passing reflection; refractions of me
as i hasten descent into dirty litten side streets

fearing voices more than the still squeak-scratching of the night creatures

i see things, reminding me to walk
and to keep walking

not to run
because the faster you try to get somewhere
the more you will end up back home

and home is where the unheard is
ricocheting fragments of your skull
in your head places
theorising the best means of escape
with ropes and a map of the sewage system

i ache for the heavy burden of a sleeping hand

i will dapple my depreciation with a pen stroke with a brush stroke with a palm stroke

with a croak of strained notes

that i dont hear when im walking
running on the inside
running on much more than empty
much less than nothing

running and i cant catch up with myself
my stomach is nowhere near the end of this pit i feed with memory

everyday, proffering scraps of myself
and others
still frames
of every other time

i let



.

i ache for disintegration

powdering constance into a beaked mouth of closed eyes and shuddering
for the hunger inherent
for the disease no one ever speaks of

in a complacent way
not a word.






Thoughts of movement.
I miss walking the city streets at night.
Clears my head like no shake ever could.


[apologies for the length, this is me rambling]
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this skin i'm in
it isn't me so much
as my toes
are my feet

my fingers are my hands
my eyes my face;
shoulders, knees
floor

and it isn't me
so much, when i smile
or cry, or fall apart
down splitting sides

it isn't me so much
these lips (that speak
for me) and i rarely invade
the privacy of my heart

but then i get lost, in
all the things that are
supposed to be (me, but
aren't), in who they are

and why (no matter
how hoarse i make her throat
with screaming after her)
she doesn't come when i call



I have I’s in the back of my hedonism.



When I finish there will be a river
Translucent and cascading



“I know you are a busy man, but just try to think of it from my point of view."
“What, in a g-string and bra?”



When I begin there will be no end
Why, she doesn’t even have a lake to swim on out to the island (it isn’t really an island, but we just say it is) with. It must be terribly sad for her, with all that grass and not a drop of water, currently.

“How exciting!”
“Yes, but there is fear for the afternoons.”
“You musn’t fear, and why are you?”
“Because night breeds a morning with the moon, and why I am, I cannot say for fear of over-exposure.”


--


this probably really should be a scrap. just incongruent randoms. hard to puzzle fit today.
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