Or can you just not see my 'realness'?

Let the reality of the situation, come closer to life. Let the closeness of a real life, get nearer the situation. Let the situation and the life, meet. Let us meet. Let us meet. Let the reality of the situation come ever nearer to the life we hold. Let it grasp the life we lead in a hand which aches for the untouchable. And let the touchability of this untouchable little creature bring a life closer to a thing which is real. And so on, let the realness be a thing which touches, and a thing which strokes in utter touchability. Let you not withold your touch for only secluded places, let your touch be known, made more real to the situation. Because if the situation at hand, is the one that the hand holds, then, it is... a real situation. And in the sense that it is a real situation, then if avoided it becomes the lapse (your lapse) of not letting the real situation be. Do you see? Please please see the situation, be the situation (with me), I am in the situation and to be it is all very real, but you, you don't know whats real.

Buoys

Tattoos of ships sink down, sink down... anchors too heavy, anchors too heavy. Tattoos of ships on the arms of them, sink down, sink down, tooo heavy for them. No smiles to greet the damsons of morn, her heavy-staring-candy-face, looks doe at dawn. And f*cking leave now, and to hell, go away! The long, the wait, the swim, the boat... a salty coral chip, is sharp at the throat. And a mug facing down to the anchor that caught him, the anchor that caught him! The anchor that caught him. Weighting on him, she'll try lighten her gaze, but with a hand on the indent of her worker-woman waist, plaster casted kisses are forced on her face. And plaster casted touches all over the place. Heavy duty boars, weighing on him, weighing on him. 

New Desert

A new desert in reach. My barren bare essentials are hopelessly transforming. Becoming camel, the plainess that is felt within these bare dunes is seemingly satisfactory. What is this fulfilment coming in an undoing? A Downward intensity... How so? How so? We loose time in a sand storm of 'not everything has to be said now, not everything has to be done now' This time we can decide on how much to give, how much to take - without it being laborious, contrived. And who says that only passion is a raw material? Bare essentialism might simply mean giving one shade of beige at a time. And when, sleep becomes dusty, made nude under a harsh sun, dry mouths need not even summon to speak because, here on this lowland something in the lull of your gaze, and the gap of our speech act, makes for a space which is awkwardly thirsty yet fruitful in its famine. Freedom in fast. And now, when I see, I see a distant map of orangey plottings all around me, and am both compelled and assured that to keep travelling onwards... is but to bite a single one.

When I couldn't bring the columns down

I couldn't bring the columns down, not even one. Not being able to bring the columns, the columns down, the columns down. It is a pitty that when I lay down on the floor, Everything else still stays standing, upright. Lay me down easy, lay me down slow, but the columns can't come down tonight and so, and so, and so... We need to do this together don't we, we ought to do it together. Bringing the columns down together now. The boulders of blood, making us smaller, bring them down with me, bring them down.

Rectangular Dancing

To dance within a rectangle today. A slow dance, repetitive steps from side to side, front to back. Step side, step back, step side, step front. Step side, step back, step side, step front. Step side, step back, step side, step front.  No need to really think anymore then, not if the steps let me breath. Step side, step back, step side step front. Thankful to have the support of an arm around my back or else I might slip out. Box dance is a bare one. One might say expressionless, but that suits me fine. Here now refusing all transgression, I can become the lines. Being the line is less energy for me... than trying to either in or out, on or off. Lay me down and flatten me out then, I won't mind becoming the floor.

Pock-ets

Pock-ets are the small, self enclosed spaces- psychic, physical. And pock-etry, the act of anti-creation, reve-lations of the 'not so happening'. Envelopes here are never fully sealed, the cold breath of sentiment, seeps out, undetermined and unaware. And yet... pock-ets are always constructed from the finest invisible threads, somehow though, they are always pulled together a little too soon, unfinished and laying open they are notably incapable of containment. Their unseamed gaps expose what was initially kept concealed, so that these pouches may only ever be deemed unfunctionable. With each pock-et regulating its own pool, comings and goings leave small traces of the things that might not be seen. But no, not a marble will fully escape without some embroidered emblem of potential potentiality. Accommodating as they are, their smaller than life capacity and seamingly well constricted allowance may only last a short while. Binded unprofessionally in silent un-surveyed protest, they will inevitably unfold, unstitch or come loose.