saturnineguise

a camera empties itself of moments as of faces the implicature is your face reflected past the future exi(s)ts in that glance developed

i am not waiting for his or his approval anymore (i was never waiting for a coffin procession, as they awaited coffers opening, gleaming) i disregard my blood; imagine grimalkins warming their crooked fingers over bubbles exploding punctuating their gripes: on breathing, on life my mother suffered. in turn, as i when the day comes there will be no thanks; no I he will be happy to have less she will be happy to have her breath given back say we carry our memories with us find out too late my suitcase is just a large handle on a hole expressing your love with a store-bought mask, with plastic painted tears

Relentless as an ocean eroding the creases of my cliff face tidal waves of you crash along my boundary stones the push and pull of blue: eddying thoughts emotions white wash i don't think the ground will keep beneath me and i'll plunge headfirst into the push and pull of you (are you waiting) (are you waiting) (are you waiting for an sos on the sand?) let's go

There will not be any words when the time comes. Emotions will circle back on themselves like the snake eating its own tail: an endless cycle. Existing, not existing, consuming itself into oblivion, only to expel, excrete, create itself again. Constantly extinguishing, constantly setting alight. I let the ink melt away the words I write on my naked flesh. Lick my finger again, rub out my emotions. I wrote them; childishly hoping they would find you. Like the words I say quietly in empty rooms, in empty expanses on other continents, hoping the wind will carry my thoughts to you. I wanted to tell you, but being the coward I am, I don't know w

I come back to you – unwillingly it seems. Walk back down these streets I've forgotten to walk along. They say it is never easy going back. I don't agree so much; I think it's so easy that this is what makes it so hard. Where do you go on those days where all you need to do is walk? Hoping to find yourself in the brickwork of old stable buildings, do you ever look up just to see if the sky still exists, up there? Maybe it only happens to those who look too intently at their own shoes, mistaking this for politeness I wasted too many years staring at worn leather. Maybe it wasn't very polite of me to say goodbye as I did, but politenesse

i catch little insects with my fingers it makes me feel so powerful and having become god in your eyes, also - i quit: take your sorrys with me, punch in, shuffle through turnstiles, take the line closest to the door. i speak erratic, tongue sore explaining away this knotted anchor he said it was "very zen" to undo, unravel, unrelentingly - of course i cringed. having had your breath taken you have the gall to ask for it back.

A violet tag catches my attention as the metal moves towards the city. Burnt out buildings sit comfortably silent in the fenced in wastes of grass; I wonder if anyone lives in there, knowing where all the holes are, sleeping between empty bottles and filth. People shuffle around inside themselves, volleying thoughts in tiny spaces; a child tells his mother he would rather stand. A forever exists when I close my eyes, pinch the space between my eyebrows; breathe in deep into a sigh. It's black there, confused and consoling, but then one speck appears, and another, conjuring coloured hallucinations to dance along my lids, telling me to open up

white rock exploded into perfect form primary colours washing back the need to stay in cities near people the quiet is a heart beat muted for a mother's anguish the skulls are not crystal the air is not new but everything is new now.

I c an f eel my self pour in g (it is n't an ex cus e) a not her d oppel gang er (yes, I ex ist eve ry wh ere) d own t he pipes (a ll type s) a gain.