Inside
The mind
The only place we live
External
And internal
Measures
Unrelated
Opposing
Or mirroring
Only one knows

Think piece. Jot, quick clog. Up the drain, sink ship in slime. Thyme and rhyme. Soaked up in the roots of the crock, the juices on which we dine. Sipping sustenance, sour; sweet. Fueling erosion. At the boarder of the mouth protective boulders crash down. Uneven ridges grinding, pounding. Whale ******* sea of spit. Belly-up. Maniacal pupils wide, about the circumference of crockery laid out and on and on ahead of ye. Into the distance it never ends. Cut cook chew cut cook chew cut cook chew look at you. Being stopped and squeezed and pushed. Always controlled, each little segment. You little bolus travelling. Sphincter sphere choked of air. Melting in the eyes of identity.

The fig tree is tormenting.  The roots spread underneath my surface, claiming more and more of brainland. Like thick neurons, implanting themselves solidly. All leading back to the core. The main who-am-I-and-what-am-I-going-to-do-for-the-rest-of-my-life trunk. I am an ant who can feel the rumble at the ground, but looking up I can’t see past the ****. There is daylight and leaves somewhere above. I know it. I’ve been told in stories. But can I ever get there. With all these giant fig bombs dropping, detonating, killing. I don’t want to lose my life without figuring out what it is meant to be. I can see so many of my colony scrambling up, making do with any old branch, the closer they can find the better. I don’t want to slave in the shade. The biggest challenge shall be basking in the sunlight, atop the fine green leaves. I can find spots of gold on the ground, like right here, this is golden. But to live in the rich open air is the ultimate aspiration. Tis why we are all here.  If I could focus my tiny little brain then perhaps I could make it faster. But it’s about getting there also. And to do that I need to spend time inside. Imagining the feeling. Feeling it slipping away. Feel it come roaring back. Looking at the big picture and looking at what is in my hand.

Walking through the city centre
the sun has almost set.
There’s a sharp chill in the air.
Birds screaming “socialite!”
Shouting coarse through their tiny
delicate throats.
Marking the end
of the day.
There’s nothing they can do.
Marking the start
of winter.
There’s nothing they can do.
Misplaced and nostalgic in crispy air.
I heard summers ghost in their cries.
I felt Autumn **** up against the **** of winter.
Still present.
Her body intertwined
in a dying pile of leaves.
She looked better in golden light.
But perhaps she feels more comfortable
wrapped
in the fraying grey coat he has to offer.

Up and down I go, spin around the round vestibule about which way do I go. Turn now, I think. Unsure howevermost I appreciate. Your attempt and love too, kindness. But I’m afraid it isn’t working out, don’t cry. Just sit quietly. Dark corner drown moan ground down in dust and flames and burning bodies. Hold out and on it’s almost gone, I promise. In the dire light the fire flight the hose pipe with the power. It’s saves lives it doesn’t live. It washes away the fruit that have fallen. Bruised on the ground beneath the tree you lay. Lay down. Rest now. Sleep now. Fall into it. Into the cotton and the springs and the floor that supports your back. Feel it dissolve into pearl pixels, melt into your vision and hear the drum of the numb washing over, under water. You are. You’re under water. Breathe. Gasp, choke? No. You can breathe. You can breathe underwater. Fantasism organism culminate in marvellous ******. In the church, under the steeple, amongst all these strange and foreign people. Why do they cry? Out in anger and pain. And softly in distraught emotional confusion.