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
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 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.
"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.
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 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
Why, she doesnt even have a lake to swim on out to the island (it isnt 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.
Yes, but there is fear for the afternoons.
You musnt 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.