and then our exile

words words far too many beginnings void voids contents sublimimobility destinations lofty hasty sinkholes viability virility veracity repulsed this hand casts down these colours but does not make bricks of clay // oh oh mangled pieces of fat whose memoirs are these tangled reaches for hormonal tides rides the ghosts are whose which and/or what body stripped of its skin what stripped glut what simple floral pattern what reaffirming polished pieces of wood, what recurring recurring always recurring here there here there where lies lies lies
--
ephemeral pinchings at the corners of my eyes the rooms we live in waver and shift at the corners of the comfort of gloom i am told my perspective the way i look at life has darkened do i really feel that much darker even since last autumn why these always reaching and returning and shadows and mourning and retrieval from chaos, what happened to the optimism i really used to inspire. what can i say--which is the appropriate answer, it was bound to die dust returns to clay? crucified? here i say--because i love to maintain this sacred cow i play into your hands, here is the stereotype i will live for your prejudged bias, is this the sincere altruism? this: is where the true “futility” of life stems, human being
--
noor: you should write some happy things too. because this is where [other people] get their idea of how you are doing-feeling, when they read this, and because i am here i see you do many many happy things too. you should show a more complete picture if you show any picture at all.
--
: that is objectivity

or i need sleep, pirouette.



no promises and no claims.