I see a snout in partial filth
A trading route established for
Emotional funding
I put on my boots,
Then my coat
And like a clot I stand
With my back to the door
Gripping the irresistible urge
To stay at home
To remain alone
This is who I am not me or may be as the lofty head that's bowed in self regard belies an icon free for futures in our sallow skins, night seeking eyes work deep inside the caverns of a mind where destiny has sought and found and left us free from thought like creatures who now know who or what they are and settle and no longer seek, they mate and rear and fertilize the land with what remains - the blood of prey.
What kind of communication is it that doesn't have a like button?
I am walking through the streets, cradling a cardboard box that contains three cats. One has stuck its head out of a hole in the front, another has stuck its tail out of a hole in the back and the last one has stuck its legs out of the holes in the bottom and this is somehow a dog. Sure enough, I am now walking around with a cat box dog, clutching the pair of handles that have sprouted from its spine, in lieu of a leash.
I have breathed seven hundred and four times this week. One hundred times a day, and some. I have punctuated each breath with a hic or a cup, and in each cup I have deposited a stone. I have invited soldiers to dine here
.... √\/\/\ ....
BUT DO WE EVER GET THROUGH?
.... √\/\/\ ....
On horseback I desperately rode for five days, clutching a shit encrusted bat in each hand. They chirruped like crickets.
I am riding the dung line. I've not slept for days. Those pathetic buffoons, the Tomlin brothers, are over there among the greens, spitting out their vile invective, and I wish they were dead; that I could throw them overboard and be done with them, but I cannot. They are stuck there, as I am stuck here. There have never been fears that you could deny or pass away as only
Some of us would cry
Because the earth we see
Is not the blossom we
Would hold between our teeth
And dance
You run to water
Tears of wanting
To the step free
Unzip your curses
There is a dark knife, inserted in a wooden place
There is a soft, folding knife, inserted in the leaves of awe
There are knives of green, like kidneys, stirred by your song
Your welcome love to kindle
Love your gone mouth
And trouble
Long as round life
Rubble turned
From passenger
To passenger
Upset the long view
In hands as dry as day
What I see
Guides no
Heaving ruins
To the kerb
Where I write:
Interested in politics and husbands
On the floor is dirty
Would like to meet a bird
To shake hands
In the bin a mouse gland
A fruited will
Ingested lines
If I could raise to life the world I seek
I would not need for wings
