Last Night

The aw in bawdy came about the roundabout round the hips, across the shins, fingers and sailing ships, seated in worn, encrusted, upholstery, in the dark, limelight lit, the tactile tip, up wholesome, to have some, the neck, the collar, the point, the pointed, we new, we dallied, we stopped, we played, we had, we bolted.

perpetual crescendo

There is a wind-swept version of your life

In which you are not the star

You are the sidekick

You are the set-wittled

Cutting and chopping but never

As confident as the finch that mates for life

Under the guise of monogamy

Like a British king

With six successive cats

In a Manchester swamp

Unadulteratedly unhappy

In your broken down Studebaker

At a gas station next door to your house

Parked behind a cop car without tail lights

Far from the stretched, forced structures

That timetabled your schooling

Where you went uneducated

In a foreign family home

Eating two minute meals

Lukewarm hugs

Even your parasites loved you more than a mantle

Or shelf

And in this windswept version

You never guess is never correct

Your foot is never fleet

Sans luck, sans swift

Not humble, but humbled

Not meek, but made

You are the shell but after it’s used

You are the wrist but after it’s sore

You are the pleasure but after it’s tender

There’s a sneaking suspicion that has eluded you

Its great at hiding and you’re terrible at seeking

It goes on unknown, an unknown going on

With traces of it lingering after its been

After its been or after its left

Either way, it’s always gone and when you’re present

Stopping only long enough to suggest its existence

A flittering mist

A dash of light

A reflected milestone of indeterminable achievement or award

You should save up your wits

Let them stew in their own accumulated interest

Wisdom stored ages

Gets potent

Ferments

A black hole increasing in mass

A snowball rolling into itself

A parallel of a parallel converges like four dimensions becoming three

And this will be the longest line

A possibility

A supposed goal

Hay Day. White tiles and quiet streets.

Likened like a specter of physical feelings, tied to the consciousness swimming in its own malaise like a psyche sick with the decadence of its own undoing. The phantom takes the notion and pins it to the ether hanging by the door, an apron, an element, a protective clothe with a neck strap worn when washing the dishes.

Sewn and quartered, tea cupped and caked soaked afternoons run into long and tired evenings, just so you can perk up and shout in my face, demanding to retire to the balcony. Theres a bottle on the kitchen bench but you still prefer the flask.

You'd like to unwind but I prefer your tights.

Its momentary domesticity of an ever expanding field all felt with thoughts and intangible edges, stretching in static, throughout the all and into the nothing, perpetual kinetic stasis: coddled by the possibilities we skirt around reality.

hair draped hands and hooves, baby, hands and hooves.

Hair like shapes and colours: adjectives that usually subscribe to other nouns by law, all ordered and separate, perforated at the point that they connect to existence and splayed out like an instructional assembly illustration.

Melting Already

You there?

Sailing with the cosmic prism no doubt.

Blistering across the sea.

Leaving crackles of blue, green and fluorescent pint with white streaks in your celestial wake.

Start with a Dialogue

“I think you should start with a dialogue at the beginning”

He said this every single time so I wasn’t at all surprised. My mentor was looking over my grand tome of a work and not offering any advice that he hadn’t already.

“So if I wrote about this conversation, it would count as a dialogue, right?”

“If you wrote this, it’d be extremely boring”

This is the beginning and the dialogue he was always recommending.

To not or not to

I thought I read:

"He said that the friendly, jovial bumping of shoulders while walking across town from train station to galleries and back again, would be the only physical contact between them for the day, then, she pointed to her cheek and he kissed it without thinking."

-Dave Eggers

I hadn't read that of course.