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

heavy machinery of meaning

this time you can’t just load up, tighten your shoes & walk. this one you can’t. go on & walk till your sore but you ain’t makin no ground against it. you ain’t gunna see the end of it. you can fight all you want. it’s almost sweet how hard you fight. forget it. sweet-hurts. forget it, this was decided before you licked your first fattened-thigh.

soonday you’ll be dirt & bone & gnarly joints almost forgotten & wailed—that tired old lover’s heart will’ve given up beating. complete quiet come over rivers of blood hereto eternal, no more wars—what was certain impossible is finally revealed impossible, the rock rolled down, settled. stilled. won’t be long thereafter everything you spent your life trying to hold tight to, steer, & form will have come loose, free, & it sounds now like some kind of nightmare. you grow heavy just to think. but you won’t walk around this one, so grow heavy.

anymore than now there won’t ever be a place to rest or be. you won’t find warm hands, soft hearts or fine love to lean on. don’t matter anyhow if it will come cus it sure ain’t here with you in the quiet dark of last night. if somethings coming to cast a light, its too far off now to ken & you just hurry the blood let for wantin. what was whole won’t never be so again.

this aching puncture, a promise, wants, needs, asks in baby-girl breathless sighs can’t you just come die in me. know nevermore were the muscles in your thighs meant for thrust. nevermore to tear through with hate, love & lust. you can’t forget this. or fuck it till it closes up and pulls away. or lay stuck halfway, unborn, flowered and covered in your own stink and weak. you can’t let shorter breaths catch on before the beat is found.

there lay dead sure, in the gasp of rustling winds, in the heartbustin lull of wavering light, or the long-black night-hum of life living, a rhythm ascending.  a sick constancy unsaid, unheard for theres never any a moment not wrapped up and delievered to you in it. a hard forward rush of life beat beating everything apart, together. die in the vale of it.

explode past the headland. there is this sea. just past. just-so thicker than your need of it. just past. here you’ve no need to come clean, be healed, be full, or strong. here you’ve no need of her, the sweet hymn or all the that heavy machinery of meaning. there is motion & life and never a want of anything else.