i got some dirty boots

babayyyyyyy

(i sank into the sea)
i really wish i was somewhere else right now. on top of a hill. or under a wave. or in a shed.
everything breaks when it meets the water.
i lit fires on the shore, and i forgot about them. they've long since stopped burning but there are bits left, scraps of coal, fine white ash that dissolves when you touch it.
i hear the crackling in your voice like a roar. it rushes into my ears and fills my eyes with the sea.
it's all i can do to mumble an agreement, the ocean is making my throat hoarse and alien, small noises make themselves heard without prior permission or intention, i am at a loss to myself.
thereisnothingthereisnothing that will ever match up to that moment thereisnothing that will ever be as complete we will never be as complete

breathe in.
the air gets colder, the feeling of being observed heightens. you would be happy with the person i am becoming. you are happy with the person i am becoming, inasmuch as you can be. with all of us. we are doing things. we are living. even if even if you never had that choice even if the world was just too much of a struggle and would always be that way in some wordless screaming unending void of a one-way street
we have ways around, we have hardened hearts, we can pick up our dragging feet
and keep walking
and keep our slightly chipped shells intact for another day, week, indecipherable period of time,
press them to our ears and hear the roaring rushing riptide of our blood and your blood and the sea's blood
and not let myself forget the way it felt
the closest i will ever get to being whole
the furthest we ever were from being alone
the closest we ever were to having heartshells for a home

sky blinding, crumbling walls

full moon tonight, there is buzzing around the south-west of my body and i know that is where it sits waiting to rise bloated and fleshy
and the earth's shadow will follow
the sun
is still behind some clouds but brightbright bright enough
musn't let musn't let my intoxication overcome must find must find the equilibrium between inspiration and restriction
i am playing songs today on my guitar and it buzzes more than usual at least to my ears
i am not high, i am not under the influence of anything more than 2 strong coffees and i swear by now they should have worn off
my head
is cocked to the side and i listen for
harmonies quivering in the ether, patient, waiting to resound
i am humming today
it is february but the eclipse is in leo
22
is the age of reason

my body moves free
my bones loosen
but i have not given up

since this morning i have been comfortably unsettled i have been moving either physically or mentally or musically
twigstwigs in my hair freshly refracted
the colour of the ceiling via the couch

she the room
leaves
the fall early this year
it is still a month before autumn
there are ashes in the
cold air

there are ashes in the cold air
south from here, south-east
and now i think, just now i am thinking
why can i not get through to my window? the window
i can't see from here

musn't let musn't let it get out of hand out of sight out of sound
i cannot hear my window the window
i cannot hear

but things can burn even in this cold
loss can turn me to ice even in this heat

and now i can't get the thought out of my head, just now i am thinking
i haven't eaten since i woke 10 hours ago
(my love, i feel unsteady)
i will see what i want to see

and watch my earth's shadow move from the roof, the tree, the earth
i just need to hear
i cannot hear
i am not too sure
when it will rise but i want to be there to see it


i want to be there to sing it

holy and wanting

skin will hang loose
when your heart beats too heavy
when your arms swing swing swing
for lack of control

i want to do nothing productive.
correction: i want to be amazingly productive without having to make any effort whatsoever.
my self-disciplinary skills seem to be waning while
my flesh is waxing. and it seems to melt sometimes.
addictions are dirty things, they inch into your pores and itch back out again, leaving you holy and
wanting to destroy
wanting to destroy

but i didn't think the mice could get up here
is it dried flowers scratching the door frame?
is it my throat delivering a sentimental growl, unnoticed

and the rust buckled my window
i place my head on it and it is warm
i find myself wanting the sympathy of the wrought iron
i bury my head in the glass, but it doesn't even crack.
fuck. all i wanted was some sort of comfort some sort of peelingpaintbluelitmetalcoldcomfort
but i suppose you have seen too much of that already, haven't you?
i suppose you recognized it the moment i threw the line,
the moment it broke the water's surface,
bait shuddering with a self-deprecating ripple.

i should teach myself to stop.

with each tongue that is placed in your mouth, my confidence shrinks.

i am almost cowering under the covers with each scritch at the closet door
i am tensing in frustration every time pressure is suggested.
i am mentally and violently retaliating at each sound
wanting to destroy
wanting to destroy
rust will crumble from my ears
let it
go with
it will be
fine let it

and it depresses me
it shits me
that nothing is making more sense
it frustrates me
that
in fact it is going in the opposite direction

i'm all over the place. my sense of judgement is out of town for a bit.
it may have skipped the country before it got charged for fleeing the scene of the crime
i swear the ceiling fan is tapping back at me.
i swear that one of these days i will so viciously bury my face into my guitar that my eyes will become fields of splinters
you and i can skip through them, hand in rustedironhand, me and you, the window and me.