assorted (unidentified) things described

*

like a kitten is how it sounds, small sounds in subtle almost-rhythms

**

it just sits there. never moving. not even when the windows are open , out remains out. what is in, appears to be entombed.
___well sure, yes_ you can warm it and cool it. , _the ghost is warmer or cooler doesn't change the fact of the ghost. (if we were speaking about a ghost).
______- oh yes, on that i agree entirely , they're rarely solo - but of course we're not speaking about -

* *

the morning bright is gone by mid afternoon. _the pace , balance , composition of things :
it affects everything. it is shaped like a pear: a thin morning , with a large, obtruding evening that starts early and lasts most of the day. getting heavier so that 6pm feels like midnight and every minute after grows_ heavier _and __slower and __deeper _and ___rounder ___and

* **

it isn't the same every time so it's hard to prick it to the wall. [still she wants to know]

outlets have to dry out. then you're stuck with what you've planted in the garden , and of course you're terrified of what's sticking out the ground - you wanna wait around till that thing's grown? - but so, then, the thirst is overwhelming so you dig up the roots and drink the dream of it back out, which doesn't help so much, thirsty and drunk now with the dreams you sowed and these... _things that surround you , damn the silence (i know it's been raining, whenever i walk out the ground is wet, there's no sound i just want to hear something) damn the silence of it , and if the rain is silent then fingers on keys can imitate that well enough

relieve the silence.
____but how'd you get soo far out there that you can't hear anything? how'd you drift out that far? 
____ she wants to know that.

* *_ *,

my whole lower torso: wrapped in a cloud. soft as vanilla ice-cream and that gentle too.

* _* _*:*

no, you can't call it a dream. a dream at least is real in the sense that it existed once, as a real experience - it happened - you did have that dream. this isn't that. it's an illusion. a fantasy. it never existed, except as a collection of what-ifs you organised into an agreeable structure and stood back and picked the petals off of and rubbed against your eye and hoped to intoxicate yourself into believing.

___but then, i was there. i was. there was more than just the sand dunes out there. i'm sure of it. what it was - who can tell now - but there was more than just the sand dunes out there. i'm sure of it. what it was - who can tell now - but there was more than just the sand dunes out there. i'm sure of it. what

_** _* _*

these cards, you there, excuse me, these cards, are they valuable?
depends on the game you're playing son.
right , and so, what game are we playing?
how do i know what you're playing - you normally pick that yourself - which have you picked?
i hadn't thought i was playing at all to be honest. i just found these in my pocket, i can't decipher them.
ditch them and run, why are you wasting your time with all that then?


* "*" __***

i'm too distracted to read.

there's a stone in my shoe.

i can't think it out, it's lodged in tight. __/


(long ago, it was summer once. i know this is true (who can tell now - but there was more than just the sand dunes out there) because it was annoying hanging my sheets on the line every saturday.

the stone is the stone of that summer. the dream in its root.


and every minute after 6pm, it is far

gone and goner.



[somewhere,

somewhere there is an easy sleep
at the end of all this.

]

all the things

+ it's okay you can't come. it's okay. it helps me try to imagine different futures, ones without you. (except that i miss you and i think you're soo beautiful and i miss you and even as i lay here with someone else besides me, i think of you and feel guilty for it and feel so humiliated by it i don't want to go home. ever.)

+ i can't go home anymore. i can't. it's yours. this is how i play these things we all know. and now, australia has to be yours i can't see your face again. i'm too small to deal with it.

+ i managed to pass six hours watching football and drinking half this cheap bottle of bourbon. but i'm stuck with a 60 minute gap before the next game. i'm lost.

+ what am i doing here? it's too hard. oxford is too full of smart people and i've never felt so dumb and it's soo expensive and i hate that i had the perfect life (at least temporarily) and i left it behind to come here to feel poor and unintelligent and sit around missing you. it's hard to fathom.

+ four days i spent eating and sleeping. tomorrow we go back to life. reading and gym. reading and reading. it'll all be very serious very soon.

what am going to do with the rest of the everything?

ok. there, i said it. i'm in oxford and i'm not sure what i'm doing there. it's the one thing i can't say out loud. not with everything every one who loves me has invested in it. i can't say, it's too ungrateful. too selfish. so i never will. never ever. i'll never say it out loud. no on will ever hear me whisper it. not ever.


i am soo tired.



#DudeWhere'sMyLife?

going, going, gone.

______by way of introduction

when i wake up she's staring at me. you're always doing that i say. it's not the first time. she keeps looking at me. Eventually she replies, you're always thrashing around. and mumbling to yourself. so i wake up and watch you thrash and mumble till you get up. 

___*___*___*

[over the phone]

- what's interesting about it? 

- seeing who you are. instead of who you thought. and then realising you've changed. and drawing a line between those points. 

- how have you changed, now i'm curious. 

- [there's too much to say. not easily.] there's so much

- fine, tell me one. 

- i miss you. that's something. 

- how's that--

- i don't miss people. i don't even really... notice. not for years. and for the feeling to be localised in one person... it's scary. 

- ___well i'm pretty fantastic. 

[... we talk ...]

- ... anyway, that's when i was seeing you ... 

___which is a statement constructed in past tense. 

which, is, i guess ______correct.

___*___*___*

______so, then,

i'm inside a new creature. he's unusual to me. i'm not sure who packed him. 

it's creepy because he's familiar, but every now and then he does something out of turn

and i grow concerned.___, for both of us. 

and he wants to open the windows to let some air in - which i permit him to do. that's fine,
we all need a little of that. 

but inside the new creature ... he's sprouting memories , soft fairytales that rub against my ears as i walk on in the darkness. there's a hum in the background, a slow, slow song. he's distracted, 

floating. 

___collecting things that it took me years to burn and donate and bury. 

___*___*___*

______and finally. 

it rains. sometimes it's misty. it's dark early. 

mostly i read. in my room , in this room. 

i have a football, Wilson. he's on the island with me. i hold him. he comforts me. he's the conch. 

some nice people i met gave me a little toy penguin. he's here with us. i think his name is Parnassus. 

i'm past tense. i'm not there anymore.

it'll walk it's way, i'll go mine. when, if, we meet again,

we won't recognise one another. it'll each be something we once saw ___saw together. , 

simultaneously , for a while. 

i'm here. this is here. it's dark early , and my heater sometimes makes noises. 

i'm told so do i - noises - in my sleep. 

and everyday i'm farther from something i see.

but to which i was seen.  

___*

and dreams are dark waves

felt and never understood, 

and whatever i am mumbling

are the death-pangs of a thought
remembering how it had appealed to be kept around,

and how it lost the appeal. 

___the ghost of a dead thing listening to its bells. 

and there are no pills to revive the dead things. 

and outside it is misty. it's dark early. 

mostly i read. in my room , in this room. 

and try to forget the things that have forgotten me

and fill their names with new words.