i think im getting a bit too fidgety
staring silence onto walls again
looking through people,
through crowds
ignoring flickers of recognition like goldfish picking at flakes
from heaven,
or my fingertips

im walking with an aim of nothing
i shudder at the words im supposed to be saying
like its supposed to supposed to

and i could eat my apathy with ribbons
splattering sugar on the cement
[i didnt buy them]

i collect--much too many a thing
i collect people
in my head

short films of them

it doesnt matter that reality lies to me with
black and white shades of grey turning everything into a big mess of purple
when i like you

black when i like you

black when i dont
and everything is purple anyhow
i need no glasses to tell you i dont see the same colours as you

still frames
projections

but i know you
and i know you dont know me
i never knew you

please
im suffering from high doses of pleasantry

the easiness between us, is only me playing the game the way my mother taught me
with a smile and much bitterness


i could be edging out from under you
with every wayward thought
and placid as my holdings; eyelash gates to my delirium:
i never see you.
saw.
tense is only a state of mind.
calm down.
i wouldnt hit you, even if you asked so serenely
like daffodils.
like milk
through your nostrils


i think im getting a bit too fidgety again,
hiding behind dark strands and dark shades, traipsing along shadows in alleyways that stink of shit and new york-

at least, what i think every dirty big city would smell like

i could conclude solitude.
but i get too much, too little of  
that it would make such a slight difference to anything, everything
like this
i suppose

dents, little dents
i can still taste vanilla over the dry stretch of yawn in my throat
im still feeling the hot kisses of ice cubes bobbing as driftwood in my dissatisfaction with breathing

they look at her like buttercups
like milk maids all in a row
waiting to get the first fresh cream

bursting knuckles, forcing up bones white through skin
i hear many a thing in monotone
as if im living these still frames like a projection
or a book with little pictures in the corner, movement only emerging
as you
flick
them
all
back

in an illusion of movement.

watching my feet, my legs as i walk.
gives an illusion of movement.
passing reflection; refractions of me
as i hasten descent into dirty litten side streets

fearing voices more than the still squeak-scratching of the night creatures

i see things, reminding me to walk
and to keep walking

not to run
because the faster you try to get somewhere
the more you will end up back home

and home is where the unheard is
ricocheting fragments of your skull
in your head places
theorising the best means of escape
with ropes and a map of the sewage system

i ache for the heavy burden of a sleeping hand

i will dapple my depreciation with a pen stroke with a brush stroke with a palm stroke

with a croak of strained notes

that i dont hear when im walking
running on the inside
running on much more than empty
much less than nothing

running and i cant catch up with myself
my stomach is nowhere near the end of this pit i feed with memory

everyday, proffering scraps of myself
and others
still frames
of every other time

i let



.

i ache for disintegration

powdering constance into a beaked mouth of closed eyes and shuddering
for the hunger inherent
for the disease no one ever speaks of

in a complacent way