Monday, April 4, 2011

April 4th, 2011

I'm not fucking around.
I'm not fucking around.

These wound through me.
Threads thinly spread over spaces and chasms and fine cracks.
It is crushing the bits.

Twisted round.
Around. FUCKING these chasms of knowing.
And feeling a tattered presence.
Spin into.

When is it heard?
Let the brain aerate.
Lightening in dizzying moments of freedom.
Wander into joy and heights of consciousness and watch my brain get vertigo.
Sheer breath.

Breathe through in darkness and leaden lips and eyes.
When the ecstasy exists, it follows me down into those moments of my closed eyes.
Fake it
IF EKL:fj;dkasj
that's what it always mean.s
when you look at me.
i can't see without knowing and knowing and fading further into these points of uncertainty felled as nothing but the air between my outstretched hands.
when his words move my lips and he asks me for joy. he asks for anything.

and I fall back into it.

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