run like a race for family
when you hear like you're alone
the rusty gears of morning
and faceless, busy phones
we gladly run in circles
but the shape we meant to make is gone
Restless. Restless and all I've got to show of it are some broken flowers and a few tracks which seem to be lost in translation like so many foreign novellas thrown into english sofas, rumpled underneath the tossing night's duvees. Such a pretty settee. A casual glance and I may notice the frightful little pub out of doors, or I might not with all the rearrangement of familiar skin over the other side of the bed. I can't be sure, be told, sadly just what to make of all this jumbled existential muck. Restless. And now I check myself of that nervous twitch I'm fairly settled on gambling with each time I use the old words, the almost unfamiliar ones, that merely sing to be sung of the overly familiar things. I think the suitcase is far more appropo. It's short, sweet, compact, a better relation than family or friend, fucking. It's even bent out of windows and into the slim vase of a plane with little remorse as to just how well it may not fit, how well the room is lit for better reading of the hotel room service hours. Clearly these baggages carried on are half out of the bag and wandering, always slinking, always squidging around corners and past doors, wondering. How appropo for an anamorphic leather trawler, a collagenic entity mired in scripture, either way aiming for an animous position to me, to an "us". So, I like suitcases. They may even suit me, you could say. But don't be so jangled, don't hound at me for my own very much ill, in wit or mentality, disposition, because I have nane, not to this road anyway, or those mountains over on the skyline, or those phantom green-washed curtains lipping with a purplessence and mauve regard towards me. The only possible persuasive blame I may hoist in some awful freudian way, well that, that I cannot seem to vocalise. After all, restless isn't a thing of the language so much as the bones and their showing or moaning together so very bod-il-y. Much more heavily in creek beds, much more goaded in ash-lined gravestems, they moan, old and brittle and griping, oh... how they moan. This love or that. But they're bones. White and conjured into a skeletal corporation unknowing of just what the anima may go about creating in Ethiopian horn play. There burns.
i think you spilled wine
on my shoe
in a rosalie pattern
in an awkward leather hue
And he's not dolomite, but neither is her Kate Spade lacking a Sam. Ornation, ornamental, ornithology. Run out of verbs to string along and what's left may be more mystical than sensible when spoken on a mobile just as the microwaves beat in syncopation with each word in the lended, crooked phrase. Of course to sit on it would tell me how hemmorhoids might feel if the monemes could possibly mar an anus and outright swell with a lurid taste of pustuality. Because i am curiousity in a carnal niche untying my own seams and landing outside some taken hands, barred from signing the same peace I would feel in the awkward slope of here.