The Ant Hark

Let's dive into the Deeper annals of bullshit At 4 am on a Sunday night.

Left over Fried Onion rings. It stays stuck To the layer of thin plastic, To be pulled off. It stinks Of being left as is, Of not being savoured. It's golden brown And tastes like nothing else. But it's in a dustbin.

I want to run away, from this lie, that i fear, will come true. I want to hide, from you, from my self, from memory. I want to see, you, and me, you and me, or none of us. I want to run away, from this lie, that I fear, has come true already. I want to complete this sentence that you started, and let it stay hanging, by the comma. I want to be loved -  like the wind and the sun and the waters who want to feel me - by you. I want to be seen -  fuck the recognizer, fuck the commentator, -  by you. But wants are stupid, governed by habits, heightened by longing, killed by nature. I need something, anything, proximity perhaps, or perhaps distance. I want to be an idiot, or a self-obsessed genius -  a perspective, where you do not belong. Past poses and Future stares, but the Present asks, and all I have is silence and tears, everything but an answer. Someone, Anyone, take me to the place where I shout and cry away to peace, where I purge myself of this passing love, where I kill this burden of longing. I want to run away, from this deceit of closeness, from this ignorance, from you, or me.

How long is one to wait for the void to be transposed, for the message to arrest its gait and leave one’s disposition unopposed. Is there a white light, a gush of wind on the shore? Will a resounding wave, an unexpected flight take one to the place that was before? Before, before & after, What separates them and binds? Where is the line and what thereafter will make the present seem aligned? Memory is as cruel as wondrous; a tear for the irreversible, a smile for the attained. Straight lines meet planes incongruous – a narrative broken, a still stained. Senses are as I as you; a touch too far, a sound too low, a kiss to miss, a smell to remember, a light to fade, a love to glow. Is the earthworm one, when split in two? Is this the same wave that receded then? Where did the one-winged bird fly to? Does the tree not shed a tear in autumn? I see her, with me, not present, drawn into the tunnel of light, with a smile that stops before it’s sent, and eyes as still as the lull of night. Silence can be spoken to, not answered, can be distracted, not swept away. Tears can be soaked in skin and fibre, not arrested, just led astray. I know the raven’s only answer. I know what years of love can make. But I know not the right moment, if ever, to accept the sand and let the sun smile away.

1899: "My wallpaper and I are fighting a duel to the death. One of us has got to go."

"Everything is planned"

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