Your breath is hot on my hair

foot shakes. small shudder that runs up your body. muffled cry escapes your hot sleep. my nose trembles. my arms circle you: holding you in/holding you still.

misread signal: you needed to be moved.

ghost

I'm sick.
I want help.
but your arms are missing.

Lost & Found.

And that’s how it was. I’d start off with an army, like the center of a flower with its petals radiating outwards in all directions. Bright blue, a searing fire engine red. Bottles for water and covers for the bottles. Containers to measure out my life into- lives that leaked into spilled words: messages contained in phones. Then coverlets for the phones. Music-boxes and covers for the music. Glasses to see clearly and glasses meant to obscure. Covers covers, boxes and cases. A silver box to capture things as I saw them; a book to capture things as I thought they were. Maybe another box to tie them all up together. If I was lucky, covers for the covers, thin anonymous plastic bags to Arrange and to Organize.

Things in themselves, things as they are when you’re not looking for them, when you don’t have a colored cover to put them in will dance tantalizingly out of reach in your peripheral vision, in some hazy corner of your mind. You could crane your neck, whip your head around, screw up your eyes but it’s all hazy, because it is in fact undefined.

And this is a curious destiny only you could choose for something. I say only you only because there is no one else to listen: but it cannot be limited to you, or me or any one person because then… then I’m right back where I started. So if you should choose, you could empty your ship, evacuate, and throw it all out into a destiny of your (my, our) own creation, you too can savor this heady return, to the undefined.

So I started off with all these containers of colour mashed up in a beautiful melee, all at the bottom of my bag.

And then it would begin. I’d strew them around slowly, then in a frantic rush- feathers floating off a shot pigeon. The meat was startled, arrested midflight; the integrity of this efficient enterprise had been killed. And the feathers all set free. Floating down, each into a void of its own, all into the haziness of the undefined.

I’d find it crushingly embarrassing to talk about the weights I’d thrown away. I was repulsed by the very suggestion of a possession: the putrid look of smug ownership, the greedy grasping act of hiding and keeping, hoarding and possessing. I was pushed towards The Lost and Found, would be overcome by a wave of nausea. I’d only be able to breathe easily once I’d realize that I could never find anything that could be traced back to me there. Then I’d stand and watch, rifle through the discards of generations. Picked and chose that which could never be mine- the only thing I’d be comfortable using. This way I didn't have to lose to be free, I could find, and stay free. It shamed me to admit that I was ever in a state of debt towards a weight, that I could ever have been owned, been made more complete by something that I then chose to discard. You’re careless. And yet it wasn’t a careless tossing out, the departure of every such object in my life was marked out in a definite corner of my brain, the crossing over from the known, the place-able to the unknowable was an Event, a cause for a private celebration, heralding as it did another step towards my private nirvana.

to the point of tears..

Epiphanies can never be momentous; they must come to one in a lazy illuminatory fashion- not those flash-of-blinding-lights you're told to look out for. And when it came it was banal and simple, just about as boring as you think you are. Just one word: live. In the present, the simple tense- essentially, the unadulterated. Pure sense perception. Just wallow for now in the amazement overtaking you, the amazement that arises the realization that the substratum behind the rise and fall of flesh is a complex web of throbbing veins, a matrix of flesh blood skin bones hair and spit, rage and tears. This fluid movement of living breathing sighing- it exists, and some curious concomitance of your fate and atoms moving in the universe has somehow engineered the existence of this exact moment. And so can you do anything but let yourself be engulfed? Who are you to resist the weight of timelessness

(do not ask why)

itself?

because

without me

you do not exist.

who will you be.

What does it mean to worship someone?

I think it's when the hair on my arm stands on end.

who will you be when I kill you?

R&R.

Follows me., follow you. I know I'm repetitive, that's the point isn't it? Follow the mole on the end of a penis, return to this and where have this left us? What makes you think there is even an us? Yes you’re going to smile to yourself, you know me you know what I’m going to do before I’ve even thought of it. The children of your sperm will run, swim, glide in giddy circles around you, and now there’s a hole being burnt in my chest. Self destruction? I want a self to destruct. What is this name you want to hold onto, why do words, words any of these meaningless sounds burn holes in my head? Why am I blind, why can I not see

A mass of primal matter? Atoms falling endlessly, Voids waiting to be filled?

You’re on the other end of the world, and here! You’re right next to me! I’m dizzy with this weight, (but then I’m always dizzy.) Maybe just nauseous, nauseous.

And then you watch me. Vomiting into the white bowl you so thoughtfully placed under my chin. Before you shoved a thick black pipe into my stomach. Down my throat. Burning searing ripping through me. Air bursting out, my stomach expands. You pat my shoulder, “you’re so brave”. I don’t think I signed up for this.

(This isn't for the weak stomached. )

'nana 'tater slater ping

The phone is for yakking

She hangs up abruptly

Peels a banana

Carefully

Puts the naked ‘nana under her chair

The peels she puts

on a table she’s dragged specially for this.

(They’re dangerous- you know that.)

Undoes her shoe, pulls out a pack of cards

Shuffles them

Goes around the table,

Sits down infront of it

Dealing out a game of solitare.

Wait. You don't know what that is?