Wurd

i’ve been sick if you couldn’t tell anything from tone illness not dangerous but painful is raw resentment a fever and pressure headaches. 

Bet you’d be worried if you saw the mucus and blood i spat on the sidewalk, in public which was the worst; worth every second. 

Brain drippings stacking concentrically lining linking some states to others, writing in public it’s strange i care so

i don’t even read or write honestly in any condition. 

No i don’t want to promote.

Eight days a week i am telling my friends that I’m busy.

i don’t expect things

like attention, fulfillment, or heaven, 

Eventually I’ll implode

Between nodding off rhythmically and switching between  transcendent tracks i was struck by a fact. 

In some backwards corner of this beautiful planet someone was still playing classical music. 

Possibly even on an instrument I’ve never dreamed of ever actually hearing, maybe a cello. 

Not knowing what masterpieces where being missed i tried to contextualize ignorance in C. 

Humming a somber melody for all those nineteen-eighties national treasures, nodding off again

Stood hellish in the center of a paper weight was a shoulder, grammar was a pretense.

Sentences pass as the day gets lazier, sighs by couch cushion language is in languish.

When the city changes we’ll get to sleep sound and the scene inside your head will be more real,

and text is messages not written in ink

when tapping on your phone or driving in your car

i felt it through the internet in the way your punctuation never came this was one of those moments i won’t forget it felt not bad, not good, but strange while i’m being honest i hated every second that i was gone and and i resented all of those new people that you suddenly surrounded yourself with i know these things could have gone unsaid and still you could have felt it through the internet; i’m just smoking and coughing it out of my chest. 

Stop lying for your new ideology.  No one gives a shit about space or it’s relation to the pyramids. 

Stop crying about the nature of the soul; you’re a fucking child, your eyes closed but pried interestingly by sighs,

sexy lies, and self realized interbred pathologies. Tonight you’re the product of my notion.

Exploited crucially, critically used. Abused in a past life, but still honest to the point of discontentment. 

for a body like hot damn drop dead comparisons 

as often not exercising objects and hair

read or not to the books, the books full length album

more close than mother and child the other one

as often not exercising thought taut blotted

southerners ‘er hair hanged grand and something or some

be somewhere i struggled just think nothing is there

true isms don’t care somewhat sophist abated it

heavy handed, huh?

stop calling awfully, reminds me of something. reading your poetry reminds me of something.

stuck in  side split curling

laughing atrophy it’s 

hilarious. platitude police parked behind me watching. 

half these assholes watching,

laughing, i’m passing time.

your gut’s blushing from side to splitting side you’re leaking out loud and singing softly

honestly its not honest be calm be hot on phone calls steaming

sighing constantly dripping down your thighs and pooling on steaming offices

honestly its not honest these coffins in shopping malls breeding

teeth are tearing up and dropping soft soda sponges ting ringing

red and gaseous legs left under my bed, magic misled to a place of palatial pain. 

said it’s in my head, yes. 

comma in a conversation. suspense suspended, it’s in my head. 

creases cease moving and tears in pleasing patterns place ease where it was supposed to be

the ivory ending mended well but stretching is still difficult. 

swimming in acid living things cling to slick walls and barely get considered. 

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This is health. this is what it feels like, proud of sex and not much else.

i handle it one day at a time

an empty whisky bottle i know you don’t drink often i’m toasting food cold and left for you

it’s like a ten step thing

or a worldviewlessness painting living rooms blue it’s what I think you’re thinking when rummaging the ceiling.

I feel like a taiga, all salt stones and snow fields.