Ideas that spring from simple muscle movements
evoke emotions so hidden so detached from the daily undulations
what is wrong what is wrong what is wrong
there are layers of hell in heads there are layers of pain and
trying to forget and never forgetting and so surreal
the sense of touch twisted and hiked up touched up photographs of memories
ripped apart by the winds of time rushing past
here we go here we go here we go
it is hidden and remains that way
no words no questions no inquisitiveness will penetrate the bunkers of experience
experimentation
expedient aging
she is there and she is there and she is there and
what can I do about all of this
as the door opens and inside she sits and
outside the cold turns color into slow avenging thoughts
one’s worst enemy
confided in me
collaborations with the free spirited
the wee willed ones
the weak and wasteful shameful
this is what I amount to and
I would want to be so much
morally slipping fear of slipping slipped up and cracked up and
monsters in the depth of me
never ever leave me be never ever leave me be never ever returning to these states altered or otherwise
too wise to alter now
slowly to revolutionize
to dare is too hard is to be bold to wait and be told that the need is fulfilled
that what is happening is what was willed
spoken softly in dreamlike autumn voices like wind and soft intermittent raindrops on glass sliding down
the years drying up like tears in strong winterwind
what has become of me