we are dancing on the pinnacle pinpoint of an index finger directing the blame in our new soap opera of unyielding suds. the collective is unimpressed by the weak show. heck, even the actors want to bookmark this page of the story and return it to the library board, bookmark and all, in the hopes that someone else who opens the last seen page can make meandering sense of it. justification is a glory we cannot bear, not today or any day, no medals of honour on uniforms in this hour of unrest. rustic modifications yesterday coerced the beginning of another pageant of miss ogny because really, we have no time for this or you no patience for this underside of our little pinky finger which cannot even scratch the surface of this vast expanse of ruddy soil and haute couture oceans. kindle another flame to heat the belly of this pale and giving body: give it momentary comfort before you flicker and give to the forever fuseless forest erect in rows and rows of hungry greys and soldiers.
forgive me: I never understood the concept of non-goodbyes, a cliff and not a shape at the end of a conversation. we have become socially strange – everything hanging, a cup of bees within swarms and swarms, all clinging to your clothing, making you smell like forgettable apologies. mechanical flushing is a new coping mechanism in my growing artillery – I, too, have become rude, but my body has learned to not just bear aches but to hold up fists, fingers, to curl in foetal position and water the garden of spikes emerging on my back through my spine and ribs, like they were always a part of my yielding existence.
i thought it would be interesting to share one or two of my rough drafts. don’t know if i’ll do anything with this later on. it’s kind of a stream of consciousness piece (but not really) … kind of a subconscious piece – i was kind of going free flow but also thinking about the words here and there. this is essentially a rant so i don’t think i’ll ever really do anything with it? but i do like it.