Raw living.

the expression of you,

lover

is bitten with wonder
and suddenly,
I hear songs that are made of dance
like how grown men want to
and they blush
a blush so rosy

I taste birthday cakes
and shot glasses that tinkle
with hundreds and thousands

the floor, speckled
with the tremble of my excitement
walks like a lake of nails
ripped from my own finger tips
and turned into a powder crushed beneath me

swept you
in currents like the water of my heart

no more
she said
you must surface now

can you float?
there is air here

hush,

let your little ear talk
because we all know
what comes will

go

but never this
which is the core...
the heart, yours
will know when you are alone
though always alone
and smile at such a simplicity

(all I must say is 
forget perfection)

move
feel
action
grasp

dance with this

welcome to your first day of living
surreal as it is real
this is yours to create.

Stationary.

Meanwhile, my brain lies on the desk
like a paperweight.
Let it hold things down in there,
as it likes to do.
Out here the body is devoted
only to its desire.

—Aleida Rodríquez, from “The Return” in Garden of Exile

What can you 'ear?

I enjoy the things that stir chaos in me. Aren't the scrawlings above fantastic? Beethoven. I've spent the night listening to MAGGOT BRAIN, why does it always get better. I wish I could capture the powerful momentum it carries or at least swim in it, maybe even drown a little. Blup Blup Blup. NOxygen!

I/O.DEA

It is a very familiar idea to me that the existence of other people seems almost ridiculous. We are so egocentric, so entirely focused on drawing buckets of thoughts and experiences from the well that reflects one face and one face only. No quietness illuminates as much as this - forget, no (know?!) not forget but never got. Y'know there are entire oceans tumbling still. How can something be when it is not me, when it is not even relevant to me? I am the centre of a world of alien beings of skin. Greenish. Why should I care? Why should it even exist?! What is the 'it'? Do you only come out when you've got the it'ch? Funny thing, you. Perhaps this is the reason for our worldly struggles. Why not contaminate more and more of the infinite with ourselves. Hah. Our; Oh you are... (Not sure/shore.) Problem of the other, or problem is the other. Anyway. The encounter transforms within ink. The character, the actor, the kind of person that is personally personable because s/he is not a person. (Mhmm, smell the dust of consciousness. It was in the attic.) I welcome them inside me because they're residents. I don't mind - joking - they're the ones without a mind. I sought to plant roots and ends but shame, it doesn't grow. The sea shell business has taken off though. Won't you buy a seashell off me/she who sells them? 

FACEME.