Sound is Essential When Reading

I always say you don’t chose who you like. I say to myself, mostly. So the reunion, because it felt like a lot of time had passed, was a slack rubber band.

I love rubber bands, the thick red ones that encourage gusto and bravado. They hurt and the pain reminds you of how well they work.

I would like to take this opportunity to ask something of my existence:

Me: I would like to hear a snap!
Existence: A thud? Or similar to when something breaks?
Me: No! More like fingers, a good dry click. A firm sound, a strong noise.
Existence: Would you like it to hurt?
Me: Yes, it feels good when you know something works.

Curious-version 2

I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Q: “Are there any openings here for a voyeur?”
A: NO!

I form into oil, spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. My greasy intent falling forwards towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your existence.
I place an ear against its rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is just too much fluid around the brain.
“Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour”.

* * *

I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It wasn’t a surprise it was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon the angles I couldn’t see.

“You see”… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing.
I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage…“Here we go again”.

Them: So, why is he moving interstate?

Me: Because, where he’s going there is less surface area to be depressed.

Us: Scoff!

Curious

I can’t handle it any longer.
There is no room left in my head.
I am not the vessel I wish I was.
Are there any openings here for a voyeur? NO!

I am the oil spilling down the smooth hips of a porcelain wash basin. Falling forward towards the plug hole in the hope I may float above your conversations. I place an ear against the rippling surface to hear the thin, distorted conversations in your head. There is too much fluid around the brain. Its times like this one wishes for a dry sense of humour.

I couldn’t handle it any longer, so I carved out my curiosity about you.
It was solid wood and the sawdust was love.
All I could count on for varnish was a clammy disposition. I nicked myself upon angles I couldn’t see.

You see… the manifestation of a mystery is, just as confusing. I just allowed it to be larger, uglier. Pock marked with embarrassing fantasies, manipulated by a selective memory. My wonder of you is a beast.
It heaves like the collective sigh of a Monday morning train carriage. Here we go again.

If boredom was an essay, the word count would always fall short.

Thank You Genevieve

So, Emily Dickenson only believed a man,
truly believed him,
when he was in agony.

If you disappoint me, I’ll be upset.

I DON’T CARE if my eagerness lacks ‘tact’.

I could scab over, roll with the punches,
but I’ll just get excited over your mannerisms.
I’ll twist, it’ll crack and…

I’ll bleed everywhere. Aw shit.

So...um

There is nothing ‘Sex’ can teach me,
That’s Sex with a capital S… because, we make the sandwich baby.
I’m into the wack shit and I let myself down by not saying so and
secrets are boring.

I’ll finger myself with memories. Expired moments.
I’ve re-written things you’ve said on a post it note?

I’ve never fucked my idea of you…maybe I will tonight.

My arbitrary fantasy, does that make you wet or what?

Unwind.

I lie down, make a different form. Spreading breasts, thighs, fingers. They disperse amongst the linen.

I may rest.

I make a rule. When I roll over and I reform,
I will break it.

I mused about how they spend their time at home and I got it totally wrong.
I tried to climb a mast with a dead arm.
I enjoyed hearing the word lovely aloud.
Love-ly…love-err-leey.
I found the mirror more interesting than the face.
I tried to get away with exploring what I haven't experienced.


I should be interested in the face, because it is what i know.

Transparency

Transparency is out of season. Why bother lusting after a piece of burnt toast? That’s potentially carcinogenic…

But, it’s freshly toasted and googy and everything is melting, perfectly.

It's just going to burn.