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From "thesecstasies"

okay okay

the wind in rustling in your hair tells a story of what has dropped off a thousand miles away is the intention to gather up and then rush at it an energy distributed then through shallowness to rise

five people asleep in a home big enough for four only one could be mistaken into lying wakeful as the slug is universally despised so you too might feel the uncanny shoulder-consciousness of only just getting away with it

so much is pressure but some of the worst is the release which tends towards a repetition of pathology in all the shadows of the seasonal adjustments made to stave off mass a ideology

like your father never told you it is hard nowadays to talk of the child who goes to bed happy yet alone without being accused of sentimentalism which is the habit of an automatic response to tragedy I guess and wakes up sad

the body is what falls from you as you rise in that bracketed way by this this parenthetical to the other all it is a process of wanting to get closer to that big mooning face

we too are homeless only semi-detached we've been saving up for true immediacy halt who lurks there goes nowhere this unfurling which is ending up interminable is a blanketing of bold insecurity

like ozzy osborne's which I can say without irony as you will bring enough of you own to bear in your little bed which hives you off for darkness to fumble in knitted spells about your collarbone

we have become so certain of uncertainty meanwhile el niƱo has given rise to cases of hurtling upwards super-subjectivity of a being of total dissemination whose myriad parts you fully occupy all and at the same time

you feel the last mewing warmth on your back articulated like the spine of a vast earth goddess let loose amidst the peaks to rise as ether carrying her displacement on her back is a passage through it
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