6. August 2014


wrung out
I’m almost certainly not present
without doubt.

i struggle with the weight of unreciprocs and suffice to say it’s a toxic



a common tongue (rarer than ground, that’s flutteringly common) and unbridled (what?) nothing—-blur.
i’m still browsing, babe. but I feel the capacity of my depth
do you feel me? do you
or, I’m sorry, shall we refer to them as limits, in real-time?
I refer to your trousers, silken, and swimmingly.
I sweet sweat and smile at you.
shake it off you’ve gotta you’ve gotta shake it off

ha, ha, she swings,
she misses

onwards we diagnose with inundation
What’s the trick?  How to shorten the tempo?


What is it I am trying to say, really?
That I am a ticking timebomb with a penchant for the withstanding.