Thursday, August 25, 2016


Operating, without the ability to grip.

Hope the skin prunes.

A naked cunt against a cold wet stone.

A man with one hand, wagging limb, crossing street. Tall. Skinny. Walk resembles a flail.

Pulling a word, verdigris, across thought like it is a kind of head band.

A compiling of seizure stills. All those kids.

I wanted to read something antiseptic, I did not want to stir things, art history. But it felt like gauze pads of ache pressed gentle, onto eyelids. Large purple cloth bound book. The destroyed Pieta, Christ's leg set to drape across Mother's in a mystical erotic union, but it was given up mid-chiseling. They prophecized the angle of a leg that was never formed. I fell asleep emitting, like hot inflammation from a cut leaking saltwater, alone, dreamt I held onto a boy like that, his nose grazing my nipple. I wake up worse.

Inert man wearing bright yellow, falling through a black abyss.

I have been to the theater, alone, 7 times this Summer.

I want to feel like black ink to someone. To envelop. And then to be wiped up. It may take a little work.

After years of trying to find Tanczacy jastrzab with subtitles, I give up. Awash in polish.

The maniacal laugh and a lowness. I am it. Temporal, temporal, lightly constrained. Every second I sift out. Comfort's in the impossibility of that visualization.

And unwell is relative.

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