September 14th

12:06PM // Delusional


In my most recklessness I resemble less a rushing boar and more an unprecedented monument that in one fell image embodies every notion of doubt and loathing I in day never imagine to see in a public space. I knit myself these things that are like somewhere between landmarks and medals that I staple to my neck like scarves so I can always be in my eyes range of acknowledging or some kind of shit where there’s something tactile for myself to touch around others or for them to see and acknowledge and touch around others. The problem is that all of my limbs are completely delusional. My hands that knit landmedals craft cruel workings of empty desires for the sick chambers of my chest where I generate warmth for bringing people together or some stupid honesty communicative thing I’ve made to nestle is in all accounts a cavernous tunnel where ice is more fluid than any thing it could variatingly melt into? I’m just this structure that glazes between my ribs and only ever fervently cares about anything or nothing but gives these branches too much to never blossom into and takes pictures of other blossoms imagining something of how that’s what branches grow into but between my bones they splinter and penetrate not another only my fucking skin and out of my knuckles so I can never move my hand again.

There are just too many spaces where I feel like I am only casting armor for others to feel sanctum inside but it acts only as my excuse for swinging an axe and never feeling feeling an arrow strike me. When I bind my facets together and say a simple braid is all it will take he weaves a beautiful braid like a textbook and still I sit asking what is left and why.


August 25th

10:59PM // Fiber of flesh; hopeless

My body walks as a structure without warmth I think. When I believe in the alignment of my fingerprints falling into the ridges of someone elses I am limitlessly stretching my tongue towards honey that oozes from a wasps nest. Like I have written contracts to myself telling the will of my dead youthfulness to walk about a shell of contact exclusive to fantasy and the shrillbutsometimesbeautifulsweepingnatureof the airs. Foreign as to the liquid crystalline cores of moons or the way cracks in the sidewalk look or just things that no person could possibly connotate to the fiber of flesh is what this explosion of flesh is like to my dear head and hand. There’s a certain dread in these thoughts of how those around me slide and push their actions into a rhythm that is like an elevator song to them or less a song but an apple perhaps or small stick or something so expectedly engrained in what canbe attained. To loose my assurance at a market amidst the ones I felt closest has been grating to my everyaspect. To my aspects I felt towards who now lie in fine strips that crumple when stepped on and dessicate in water; who stayed very strong during it’s time, but now leaves me into doubt.

July 29th

3:23AM // 1 note // An Affirmation,

I am thinking of what I swimwithin and the small pieces/peaces that are drifting around between the rocks but not like smaller rocks or when water gets really thick and muddy and sort of sits between stones, I’m thinking of the drifting sticks or the green strands of those shallow plants that just wave in place as clear water goes around it. Most of all I’m thinking of these waters I live inside you these days. Of how when all moves very slowly suspended and ebbing around to linger and reverberate around the waters and you can only hear inside there.
I think this ‘suspension’ is what I am trying to get across here. Like the support you have isn’t even natural forces like the planets or how solar wind redirects magnetically it’s like all of that doesn’t even effect when I’m immersing myself into these waters of you-with you.

I talk my tongue into very hard knots where it doesn’t even seem like the string has wrapped itself around but more like it has swelled and concretized- my hands and fingers can not really compensate for these swellings of my mouth and use a lot of small objects around them or gild keys to open locks of doors I see in my sleep to move on to the next trial but honestly in wake these keys open nothing and instead I just burned my hands a lot while casting and hammering but here in this space the knot does nothing but melt into the soft and flowing fabric that you stitch into the fabric of your mouth.

You used the word ‘completeness’.

"I’m here to be closer/to you"

June 11th

1:29PM // Sifting Together

Intuitively I don’t think I can be there on my own. I had a distressing thought about if I could ever feel a motion without a tune to lull me and if the space of wooze between wake and rest is something I would rather than actually feeling a breeze or a hand. But then justthen I remember the very real tactility I think I have at this chapter. To himself now I truly feel the strands that before I had been weaving in my retinas in sleep and in wooze.
Part of me is checking himyself over and over again with doubts as to if is too open during available hours, am too lightly gracing every open sore? I know the air is good but will the flesh be too much for some? I have a lot of fibers that are always weaving and threading around in loops and cross stitches but will they break and wear when I leave them outside is my concern I think.

But then is when I look outside to saidsun and I find that I feel rested in arms like one of many fibers in a stem together with those I feel fibrous towards together synchronous and in peace.

This honesty between us gathers and folds into beautiful prints that become more rich with every hour like when he tells me of lusts and I show him the insides of my empty hands devoid of tales and experience but rich with texture and we’re both alright with that and even though I’m scared of splinters or small little bugs that could be nesting eggs between my fingers I still am going to trust!
There is an ebb that is unrelenting me and I will flow weavingly through it all with one of my arms exposed with him there in the ebb, one arm for myself, and my torso to be in softly sifting light that emanates assurance. Who would have thought?

"in your most frail gesture are things which enclose me
or which I cannot touch because they are too near”

March 31st

12:58AM // Seepingly

Maybe he lives in the same space as me now. I think it could be possible this feeling of running my fingers down the strands threading sunlight to everyone around me. And maybe like just actually being there to feel my body move along the curve of the rippling ground!
At the same time there’s all the grips that fasten my fingers to boards and keep my spine very rigid. Do I risk these contours in trade for kin is what I have to keep reading.

There was a really small brush that felt like everything in the small circles of wind and everything like the centers of blossoms or like the uproot of a cluster of grass those small pockets of things so natural and so uncontrollably intuitive to everything outside me was what the brush was like- I could feel strands of my own from my hair and from my nails and it was really just like something I didn’t know of.
In the lightest and the most.

When he sets the last boulder down onto my thigh I can’t feel anything after a couple of minutes. He stands over me very intently- as with that knowing he has mastered-intime I missed. I have a choice of liquidity or solid-arity. Do I seep myself beneath me or do I stay long enough to see the colors my skin has to radiate or more importantly to see the colors that others choose to paint with.
He knows all that and he sits beside me just to wait. His skin eroding as fast as mine as fast as the boulder as fast as.

November 25th

10:09PM // 2 notes // Lightly

It’s been a lot of time that I spend in these small corners (I guess), where small leaves grow through the center of nail heads everywhereeverywhere, but I’m growing myself into a weird new place where I want to cut these leaves and grow my own instead??? It’s sleep that’s done this. I am fine in these closed spaces watching every other wall intersect into eachother and outof eachother so lightly it seems poetic- so much light that I wonder what my skin looks like in such warmth. I want to share the words that peel so finely from there, and touch the powder that lays in wake.

How gentle to be to sing, to draw the skin in light and to leave trails of whatever they will. To will, along, in stem, here.

"to sunlight"

April 2nd

6:44PM // Forward Steam

There’s this propulsion of engines who unrelent. I am yes prying any part of me into my matters not caring if they’re stone or slate or something that rumbles and quakes under my steps. These stones open no doors or reveal any revel they only are to be shaken and to be be pry-ed.
'Deep time' is the core of every line, I think. These flash-forward-flashing-backwards-forwards have no cares of that while they flux into rocks and waters and any cement they can grasp and pry themselves into. This type of force is unrecognizable to anything outside of the walls, who themselves bend and curve into themselves with every PUSH.
I met a boy who can’t see anything but granite. He forces these stones out of anywhere because it is all he sees, and he does it so unrelentingly that all metals and tools and plastics and ANYTHINGS tremble in the wake.
The wake is like a dawn to him. When he tells me that I fear anything close.

February 28th

7:31PM // Soaking

Well no. It’s not really like flowers losing petals as much as it is flower stems losing leaves I think. I had a dream last week with black and white people and it is the closest I’ve been to a black and white dream, yes. But this whole leaves thing sounds a little too distanced for how immediate I seem to be grabbing at. Its just the nature of force I think, like no wants and no hopes and no desires and no excitements and no real possessions, just a stalk like that. That should do justice for now I think.

 is a soak-space I just need for my legs and now my dreaded head like small rocks that float around and crash together. I feel my wants for something I can have are very far because of laws f things that don’t exist and didn’t need to be labeled (you know those), but what means to me owns to- no no I am just trying to get some kind of senses- well like there’s no options I guess- well there could be options but there needs to be clarity of what I want to begin with.

I am playing many rounds of blue cards with termoils and soils alike, only the latter is only a dream. How miserably frustrating.

January 10th

11:41PM // Caverned-ankle

It’s easy a lot to wait.
Rocks in everything make right weight in otherwise sands that go so slow so I get very uneasy. With that, I don’t want to feel nothing anymore! There’s all these burns in me from high heat ambitions or filaments fibers peoples that- take a bunch of tacks and wrap yarn around them a bunch like that -hurt a lot! Seeing suns was something I had near me but what good that does when plants eat your shoes and muscles in your ankles swell up and burst all over the floor and you have staring contests with blood vessels and vessels in general of past sights sounds or feels feels feels feels -as I like- ya that’s no good here I don’t think. I am so cracked my glass self.

Seeing enough into the small holes where so much is hiding like everything because when you scale down it all swells again and he has an entire selfscape again and the scale is breathtaking. That time is done he thinks with rust.

November 25th

11:16PM // Bludgeon-Vision

Do I maybe sort of hold things like flakes of salts or like those little nail bits or things because I can’t answer the questions of my hands? Or something like that. The same circular air is always around but right now I’m building bricks from fiberal things that go back many years like tapestries like that. I can make a lot of due with that until after you go back and notice all the damned missedstich-es that you have to either live with and inside of or unravel the efforts into strandsagain where I start over.
It isn’t my want to do that at these times.

He sits by me and starts to talk about some kind of oak frame he built with hangnails and splinters he collected from his years. When I look through it there’s a new primary color that I don’t recognize but I recognize the other colors that it’s mixes-make. He tells me these vague scrambles of how I have only toyed with senses and the small sensations in pores but to truly know that I have to know it. I tell him a petty excuse of not knowing-bones-or-skins-or-something and he only looks back with a bludgeon-vision. I confess a sort of grain from my skin of how it’s time for me to want that but I am scared of that and how branches don’t ever grow with me only outside and I start to pour like the circle air I’ve been living with free of rent. When he decides to go he pulls apart the frame and bleeds from his hands. When he touches my arm there’s every color and not an ounce of ever belonging to anything. I’m just alone now.

November 18th

8:28PM // Granite

Like that. Like lininglung-s with sub dived sub strates and kissing them all the way until it is all over the floor. But while the wet selves  unravel my skins and tissues are as derailed and stripable and just dry dry like anything you could see around and i am so riled by it all. 
It reminds me of when- even that seems to be of it’s own.
There’s something of when you lay there, it has been of long and unwinding senses but there is something.
Meanwhile there is a sternness and hardness to the things that cause my inard scrapings that can’t be shaved away like a muscle tissue from skin or something that I wish it would but instead I have been in a pillar of granite. I think it’s all sort of gone wherever i was heading.
I feel disposable to everyone. 

October 30th

10:02PM // Breathediving

It’s clear likelake in little ponds over greens and trees and the heads that startled me coming from them. It’s like that I chose breathedive-in-g where it was cloudy and shallower and not rich in wander like I think I had crossed for. Much like my body is the same way I sort of tell him sort of like with pause and sort but I can’t commit to this because it makes my seam like I never wet it. 

Not that he knows wet, but likesort theresayshow he was diving long ago and it’s so pale how now I feel my own legs behind the trail for once.
Like with that I find these small tracings around of these motions that the ones talk about and lavish themselves on and ithewhile have skin on my hands and on my own arms and faces and selves and I will must do with that no matter how submersed. 
 I don’t grasp at any temperature of the waters but I don’t need to.
 Does he have to branchtheselves-side/me with these cold hands of outsides rather wisp my ties to down the richest of the fantasies, is beyond. Do I shelf the warm hands on my own, is inside.
What’s left, is porcelain.  

I’ll keep that near when he shrugs down the kicked plants or have you what’s there but what is that to any other or even a plant’s own self or device or whatever why. When I know I can gasp freely or stay submerged as you know I do choose it starts to shape what I want or what I expect or anyall those things that only cause me to have hardened hands and hardened eyes. When I take the amber from my eyes it’s only resemblant of the well we forged it from.

I can only ask when wisest to define in me the folding patterns of you.


September 27th

11:01PM // Alone Boldedin

I could say I feel a tad held back. There’s his notion like I was going to say this but his works as well of being true or some soft color to the people of life and say said things and days and nights to. There is a trait in the spectrum that will only turn all of it grey. There is no color for him or for his hands or for their hands or for the tapping insides of footsteps or nuances or things that are boldedin me.
There are natures for me how you hold back no beside me or sides but I am not inside if that means any to them which stones can often mean more. There is a light I believed that I at these nighttimes can’t anymore. 
Yousee as hesee that. There is no motion to fix or moment to change in that it could just be the wrong time. Even though there is a tug of the pace that tells me "no more at the wrong time," but who is that to him to me as allinnardlyis and was. I will beside those. Well I did. There is a no more gist to it all.
Does he feel the neck between the birthing stones? Does he grasp what he needs beside?
I stillfill next door is never this dry as he carries the waters between us. It all seems cold at first but there is legend of the warmth inside. While he feels that I don’t and stillfill the space layed. It’s as severed there as he remembered and will do nothing to help and cauterize me. When will we cauterize?
There is no small circle or fine grating. There is no ring around me or greater hold of a branch. I dry his sullen pores and cauterize to clog.

September 19th

9:15PM // 101 notes

September 17th

6:47PM // 1 note

dum dum girls/trees and flowers