puncture — things longer than a paragraph
still need be said.

To fall through the dark to darkness.

its come time to open your mouth and call out whatever you can. speak and speak till love comes to you. they’ve lined up their ear pieces and hang in waiting. row after row of empty vessels for your filling. and you’re upon this and your tongues gone flaccid. your minds dancing feckless with bits of dust and dead skin caught b’tween your eye and midday sun. you find yourself alone, still and silent.

you cannot walk when your ass finds ground and holds. you cannot run when your legs lost heart and forget what legs really are.  you cannot live for the remembering, the needing of it. this and all, reasonless, brings you to sit sit till it comes to you and your hand, your heart, your lip find the way again. till mind of it comes washing in, wet and unfurling those forgotten folded parts. unwrap and ease into her. unwrap and ease into this.

you’re never more alive or more dying. never more perfect than coming apart. never more than least. you’re your finest best-dressed throw-her-down-on-the-bed self when you destroy yourself, leastwise, what is said as destroying yourself.

call it being born, or dying, or a strange form of life where you’re alive.

smelling and tasting and fucking and feeling and seeing and hearing and feeling and feeling and not getting all those tired lines in place. not making a life, living. not dying slow, mainlining comfort and have. stay your belly till someone explains how an absence of hunger weighs heavier than the hunger. stay your head till you’ve your fill of the flesh and spirit, mud and wind. stay symbols for grit of goosebumped flesh. stay all till rumbling thighs bring you back.

and forgive yourself your filth. your weakness and need. your ugliness and smell, your fucking awful smell. forgive small cocks, petty egos, lonesomeness and divine contraptions dreamt to keep it at bay. throw a line aft for what might still live in such dangerous waters. fish yourself in find some cover. everything depends on dead heart and cold skin. a single pulise of blood could tear the whole damn lie apart. fish yourself in and forgive your worthless, stinking, never-good-enough flesh.

take care removing hooks the bleeding can get away from you.

this is an awful sort of hello

my ol’ mind was full and frothy all night till now. it took longer to layout this page than it should’ve and i lost it somewhere between the filter and the bitter. you can’t hold on too tight, you know?

what ever happens when you do anyways?

this here notch on your bedpost is just a place to work out longer deeper thoughts now that my thoughts have some time to coelesce again. stewing in solitude as they might. i find the empty walls and smell of urine keeps me honest when otherwise i would be sure to try to talk you out of your pants.

and since i aint got you sprawled there on the old black couch, and since i got the time to dwell some i should be able to find my way to something more than loose women, or looser paragraphs.

for now though, friendo, for now we spent our load stylewise, ain’t no substance found. even the reserves got burnt through with a mouthful of bittersweet and cold water. so set down and set right we’ll find a proper way some other time when that old bitch i keep stitched in my side aint talkin so.