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Ten Mainsprings

She asks of pain during intercourse.

Tonnes.
I don’t feel a thing.
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She asks for further intimation.

Answers are only seen from the view of the question.

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She wears pink shirt with a plastic edge.

In the material world they only peck at what builds the nest
(And her nest weaves strings of gold)

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She inflates the substances

There they are, beautiful chemical compound balloons drifting through the mind.
(In all your favourite colours)

——————————

Now

We’ve missed 6 others.

Blew a main.

Water everywhere.

I never begin anything with a title. I title things later, like a label of sorts somehow trying to sum up the entirety of this tangled knot of thoughts with an endless rope. It almost never does and probably won’t.  Life is similar. There you are in this situation with countless workouts for the limbic system all pumping simultaneously and leaving you the sweat…
There is no string of words in any language to explain this.  Science has its bullshit. Psych has its theories.  But you, you’ve got fuck all. Look at you, masquerading as some smart ass chump with something to say about what you’ve been through. Guess what, through, means that the subject is behind you and right here in this fucking second…
You don’t know shit.

You can’t label anything for certain and even if you tried someone else called it change.
Called it dynamism.
Called it uncertain.

I can’t call this anything. You’ve named it to death already and you’d know better than me…
cause you’re reading it now.
Name it now. In the past.

In a windy lesson

you’re hot on my head, what light makes the deep makes the fire makes the ocean.

I haven’t been around these parts for a while. perhaps a momentary relapse into the other part when you have to see something. read something. feel something. do something before you can reflect on something. you can only be perspective for so long before you have no choice but to be reactive. need action. i promise the cursor once flashed enough movement to sustain a focus but no more. there is colour where this virtual page is not. slightly to the left, right and up. there is no down lately things are in the air and they float around. you have to catch those things when they flutter by. a flutter is not permanent you know. rocks drop and sit. butterflies, they flutter and never for long.

In the 60s sometime a lady i know was electrocuted. her heart stopped beating. she was four. the only way the albanians knew how to help was to bury her in the ground. ground her out. she stayed there without water (they assumed it wouldnt help) for almost 24 hours. after that she was fine. now her family claims her a miracle and thinks her this very special thing.

stay close to the earth and keep your fingers out of sockets.
or they’ll bury you in the ground.

Belated post partem blogpression

In the wake of a new life, early morning wake ups, family members that make me burp vomit and swallow angry words and cycling so much I can barely stand up right without mumbling things that will make others think I’m really more athletic than I am….I am returning to blogging.

I miss you, the way your million 2D eyes stare back at mine unblinkingly. The way you are always bright and never dim, the way I login and can stay logged in and you never want me to leave. Oh blog, You are the perfect balance. The perfect union. The perfect lover.

Listen to my words, they don’t mean anything, but you know that, and you take it.