hands on hands on hands

September 15, 2010

this feeling is pushing me, right through three floors down,

i can’t even fucking think through these windshield wipers are fucking shit.

i take a bible by the bottle and think before i blink. but i still want to feel your hands on my hands. on a sunday night in the dark, watching a shitty indie film. and laughing over grumbling bellies. and stale cigarettes on the floor

ash wherever you want because we haven’t been thinking about it for a half hour and look at all this, it’s a mess everywhere.

well, I ain’t a winner all the time, right?



September 12, 2010

a sinking feeling pulls on the ends of my jeans. My shoes – now cold – almost submerged. There’s a broken mirror floating my way.

It came up and sat down. These puddles formed in my shoes, making it uncomfortable, but I couldn’t see anything but water. It was black, and rocking back and forth. Nothing was reflecting on it, which i thought was weird until it sank down and I couldn’t see it anymore. it was easy to forget after then, so i continued on my way, thinking about coffee and a young man i had met before, or wished to meet, or would soon have met.

things like that are just distractions though. Like days that just disappear after they pass, like a child running in the opposite direction or a speeding car.

but just then i tripped, and sank down underneath.

spilling things in such a masterful way – What is the passing of time but just moving? In all directions, of course. One moves backwards when staying still for too long. perhaps i am simply a catalyst, a bystander not included in the process yet I am the cause of the effect. the world, myself, simply there. Why must things have a reason behind it? Reasons are simply made up rules.

I fear the day i trip and fall through, or unlock the door with my thoughts, i fear it will happen in a most inconvenient way, at a bad time. (though it can only happen at THE time)

I fear this will result in an earthly death. it seems so inconcievable yet i know it’s there.

twelve, or maybe eleven dimensions seem just right to explain these things floating around, because they are above it. Am i the one who thinks this or is it the anti-me?

bloody lips

September 10, 2010

the last word written, well, too hasty.

Arms almost feel as if they are detaching from my shoulders – not yours – but sounds tasty. shoes degrade like memories, sort of, under my feet. each step leads me closer to giving up. Why is there forget? thoughts like these, they’re tough.

A railroad is waiting for me somewhere, endless and open arms.

what form of movement to choose, that’s what stops me everyday. Restless legs go unsatisfied, I guess.

So the path I would’ve taken comes up in my dreams. i woke with bloody lips – perhaps way too often. maybe the other path led to some desire that would be my end.

i wake and smile, i can still move my legs. this is good enough, for me.