Watching a rocking meat hook above, sporting its slight coat of powder / cables (only acting) thick straw rope/ wound round a sizable spool on a huge freight ship / climbing I reach to touch the rope anticipating a fiber that is familiar n baby slick / but it's made of steel, metal / scared / jerk hand back. Watching monstrous ships move past one another makes all parts feel like we're existing in a dimension of things made out of grey space. Translated: Indifferent, cold, delayed clattering as a result of too much distance between the objects. Resounds and traps.
Overexertion's taking a toll on what was a tightness in the face. Some sagging's set in. Unrelated to an aging drop, there's a consequential building of muscles that I can't decide if I even want. Feeling skin on my scalp's burnt through hair. Sun's weak. No. I really don't want the growth. Can we leave my body out of this. Can I work it into submission without a noticeable physical change.
Swimming has gotten violent. Cut a little more deeply each time by my suit, friction. Pummel / pluck / stuffing / ripping. Rhythmically hammering down my own face and shoulders, delirium says surface is a w i d e otherworldly meniscus. It is untrue. This line between air/water is so thin, is very "of-the-earth." I pop upper half of body up like breaking through a weak sac [yolk of a bubble] to hyperventilate, willing panic, and get a flimsy animated flash of Lozano's hammer yanking at the head of a nail. I felt the physics of the drawing, there. She made flat static pencil lines move frenetic thru my disassociation. Over and over, I mimic this movement:
I let my mouth hang loose and ugly while I pull up belly onto concrete, hover before a toppling and a little gravel-y cry. A denial like grief's, do I have to get out of water. I don't want it. This distraction is painful n lactic in the hangover, aftermath.
Purple angel plastered against the cloth on my back.
Does this make sense