Human

The thought of the sun, which

in the retreating of the light

does not set with it

but holds candle

to the darkness of absence

and temperate sail

to the nautical night,

staying up

whether or not

a lunar desert

‘comes again replaced

by a warmer sky,

must not be mistaken for a lie;

is the uneclipsable fire of a human Star.

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21 twenty times already and something even more eternal before that

and the distance-catchers. (who are they?)

 

A triangle as tall

as the rain has to fall.

 

(in brackets) does that mean

they are caught in this, too?

does It mean

this cannot be caught, either?

 

there is us

hand-tied until

we have learnt

how to fly

 

If only the weather                    more                                      Something clearer

could be worn                             comfortable                         than this hole

like a tie                                        lasso                                      in my face

 

First place is everything on time

 

And that exactly to ask what of happiness of being happy

hands-free signal of meaning different from meaning

of happiness

in the thoughts of that which

is not happy

 

“that which is”

witch of Which, again

which spares the middle;

 

the mean cuts

more than it enjoins

 

I might enjoyn-ow

but then, the same time of time as before

what time is it “then”?

and half of the time

so at least half of everything else.

 

As wide as a rectangle of sleep.

 

Contender two                         whence                               and even in the

for worst                                    all                                        spillage of all

defender of                               distinction                          things into one

history mystery                       religious                              another,

 

it probably did not have to get as bad as me being as bad as myself

 

but really

who really

knows?

 

The distance catchers.

who are They?

 

Hole whole symmetry.

It probably.

 

the first page has been unicorn

Salting over things peppercorn

All very forlorn

Most of the time,

so pretty much all of the time.

 

A variety of rainbow

made up from part-visions

of a suspected unified existence

but not yet seen all-in-one.

 

The Greater things are born

of either scorn, porn or bore-dom

(not-one-but-two is such a beautiful fucking whore)

therefore, there are no greater things [sic]

 

Just peppering

which does not get justice

but perhaps for-gets justice

witch I fail to understand

which might be the point

of the triangle or the rain

 

does not get jusTice: but spiCes: Up sensation

from

parameters of unicorn self-justification

to

unicornification of self-same parameters

 

like a rhythm to be found inside a proper shuffle

(in brackets)

 

the distance to be caught

is the measurement of all distance catching,

until we learn flight

 

everything in sun-dye

 

the whole of the hole in my face

is

the hole of the whole of my face

 

symmetry probably

 

if only it could be drawn on

as the weather draws on

the water

to walk and talk

at the same time

 

You see it now, do you not?

Something in between; something missing

Tied hands, bloodshot eyes, sky of a fire

Hell.

Almost.

But again, not quite.

The Balloon

Untethered at last, a balloon bag of air and blood

Lightly assumes to the light bringing to the boil

A storm of fluid and gas within, it rages, sings

The melody of civil war, ‘til it will no more

the catastropic energy of a flightless egg

 

Skittish away up through the firmament, where bound when

Unbound, wind from all sides pressing the puffy cover

Of rubber skin, would the hands that let it go hold now

Sooner recoil from the thunder of touch singed by

the tropical scene of a bird reshelling itself

 

Past the forever-space flood barrier it is lost

Forever, but it was lost anyway, now forever,

The light, the thunder, the tropic that hazes within,

Forces of inflation without regret, without love

setting off vast clouds of balloons that will never hatch

Thoughts from a night out

The world is only ever one move away from reaching total distance.

I was being built with milk before I could hold myself up in the water.

The water that can be cupped in the hands is about the size of the beach.

Desire is a multiplicity whose real size can only be met being-carried-out.

I am here to dry where the rain can no longer fall.

Things fall through us: routine to an inevitable paranoia.

Songs to be made like clouds going one way across.

Nowhere in the world is the world that large.

Whatever the weather, a way out of the temperatures cannot be forecast.

I have previously suggested that my mistake was speaking for a second after a first time. Now, I want to be of the opinion that a-multiple-that-is could only ever be uncovered – and so recovered – if tried multiple times.

The way forward is how I worry about the way back.

People are as pretty as the unicorn that such beauty causes to sink.

My time-wasting is just a side-effect.

I am still trying to make ground in the way the world turns.

But what should be assumed of a world that, in self-made preferences, would spiral off by an entirely different gravitational compulsion? A bigger star, and it is already gone. (And how similar are we, the people, to such a phenomenon?)

There is always something that was “left to do”. Forgotten for the for-getting, perhaps.

Perhaps in attraction the only question is: how much are you willing to compromise; how deeply into another field are you willing to spiral?

Things certainly have to improve their best version.

I have a preference for things that do not stay the same. Just as I also have a preference that, more often than not, does not stay the same.

The way to wake up to things that happen is to fall asleep well.

Question: will we ever be able to lift as much as we fall?

It is time to dry.

Human

The thought of the sun which

after the light

does not set with it

but holds candle

to the darkness of absence

and temperate sail

to the nautical night,

staying up

whether or not

a lunar desert

‘comes again replaced

by a warmer sky,

must not be mistaken for a lie;

is the uneclipsable fire of a human Star.