this digital life is a fucking desert, I feel like the biggest, gnarliest, dried up old tumbleweed, in gnarly tumbleweed land.
All those early days,
excited, when this was fun
and seriously creative, now only me, writing to myself, gets so boring,
*sigh* might shave my pussy
Usually in dreams one remembers something strange that distinguishes it from a dream,
a small surreal moment,
having sex with someone famous. My dreams lately are so real and mundane. I'll be tidying up shelves, sweeping the back verandah or having a shower.
word dust,
broken words,
discarded punctuation,
stuff from others tongues,
stored in paper lined cupboards,
with dried narwhal spikes,
a blue whale's baculum,
studying ancient books on druids,
emptying our eyes into stars.
'hello, hun’ ...can it be? ...I turn, and yes... ‘wanna play, hun?’ ...
heels click clack on the tiles
'bin getting kinda lonesome here’
...what can one do or say?
but light the candles and darkly pray.
Elegy In A Country Churchyard
moment of reflection
moss grey day with bell tones
and then ...a rope
somewhere high up in the darkness creaks ...silencio ...
and just when
we are convinced
we are alone again ...a chain,
somewhere, grates rustily ...