To sometimes feel as though you’re watching yourself from the perspective of an invisible spirit who’s tethered to you and is just trying to get some aloneness. Like, who is this fleshy man? This selfish, fleshy man. Drinking up Coke and taking up space? And living in this room and speaking and breathing. And what does he hope to get out of all this? Bothering me. Why did he come here? And that no matter where it goes, it can’t get away. You can’t get away. Absolute ego useless detached devoid of substance but disgusted all the same. Running colors in the wash, a circular tumbling uninterrupted. If it were true, that I paid my money. That I wanted to be here. Watch while I spit disarray all slow and calmlike and it gets caught on my lip and falls in a self-drowning morsel and splits off and lands somewhere out of view. Kin to beer fair well. You have never drank. All six allegories proven true and stories. Would powered channels push, if they had to. Hands of light forming out of the wall putting a sign toward you. Wake up or tell me, what does it say? In this, too, I’ve been startled (x) I’ve been compromised. I did not write this. Something else because I don’t know that I have an I. I don’t know who I is. Terrible thermal splashing out of celebration my cells grow brighter when water finishes overlapping them. I am a set tune in a radio drain. I am four hung towels none of them matching maybe two but it’s hard to say. I grew a porridge. Out of plant baths in the back room. It’s salmon winter outside and the cars are new. Every one that passes. Ten brilliant stars and ten-a-hundred brilliant minds. None of them waking none of them beginning to. The description of being a fetus in the womb you read a long time ago describing it in a question as something like, —oh yeah, it was Allan Watts—What would it be like to sleep without ever haven been awake? after he’d already asked you, What would it be like to go to sleep without ever waking up. In regards to death. To imagine death. Your own death. Before you. I know, and I have too. I have been very close to it. In shuedo. Blue. Terramine. Ssuh ssssuh. Good way to have a blame about you it’s in fairhope regailing trick. Cross. Kick your helm off the ledge and hurt your toe. Presence. You can understand. A growing glowing organism wrapping round you with no name or genus or visibility to anyone else. A growing spectral universe-esque body bag. Because you dwell on these things. IT is in being abstinent from alcohol that people begin to think you are crazy. Again.
Sake. Trow. Eggs in a biscuit too many basketless eggs. Burr while it’s stuck to your sock’s form. Fuzz it displaces removed. I am home again somewhere. I have just arrived. IT is night and the street is blue. I am tired and I walk in and cut on a lamp and the dark is stepping back for me to sit down and wake up and come to.
Whole. Repetitions of whole. Glue City from when you were a kid. The alphabet handed down to you. Does this mean anything to anyone else? Of course not. It is all to you. Your magnet for loneliness eyesore gross waste of. The scene beneath Hamlet is crumbling. Ghosts of York are battering their shields against amber gurge. Slee-height is overrated and the trend now. Nothing you say only matters to you. Nothing you say matters.
While we crossed the street was eye only the letter U? When something terrible happened did you moronically sigh and look up up to the clouds and ask, God did you plan for this? And what gives me the right to call you all these names? Who the fuck am I but a work of fiction actively delivering itself? Who the fuck am I to ask myself who the fuck are you? In a tomb? When I’m walking while I’m walking while I’m axed frost on a blaked moon flying mute.
Half the sand pilfery. Didonic palaced fliying lance. Right to my soul’s eye. Crutching ugly out the same hole. Wax denied fance. For desprit poe. Puck on an ice oh, you, oh you, oh you. When I was ex ex the sentence is ex. Write. When I welt thin like a sun dye. And all the same flabbergastedness melted over thin rocks of faces and watched, where does the next line go while I was saying that line while I was on a stage. Can you imps imagine? That was what the knight said: Can you imps imagine? While I was lying cold. Dead weight on a trolley over styx. TE FE Brex kit atrecked. Hom Home diry flame gon.
Hox Hox Hickory when not even typos are typos. Like saying the atoms were the universe’s error. Come plee let licet the enderer is buck sweet. Whole irons set to cloth. Whole clothhhhhs spent in wept steam aloft. “Why are you straightening us? Our fibers?” I am sorry. I must look nice for this interview. I will fold you up when I get home.
SSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSStupid extry neft facial pain and a line break while iked snow makes the glyphs depart to the foreground. Whole whale homes in needles’ hay. Set set set the time on your watch, watch. Set the set me down for a minute or two I am missing the floor my home. I am calling back to an instance before in my mind. I am calling back toooooo the sole rose gon.