dance of days, head as a twig, to pass the time away. tendrils unfold and try not grip too tight or loose, to never lose or choke; sometimes feeling the low roar of blood rushing through flow-spaces, held in prepare and transparency. in these moments, there is a fine tapestry we were woven upon, gestures lain side-by-side. sayin' all the same words, in distinct& ruffled tongue.

cold snap, and there's layers again. cycles run circles and somewhere, at the back of the room, there's an utterance: "funny, that". and i wonder if i'm hearing my voice or just seeing my own breath. it echoes in the corners, out between shadows. my left eye's been twitching, but only as ghost. i carry out the honours after, only by some gnarled sense of capitulation.

but that's life.

oh corporeal form, that
shaped by the motions of boulders
n sand, why do restless waters go
always like this - lapping at
the doorframe, the little dripping
sounds in
the basement?

held an arm up, to the sky,
to clear the sun out of sight,
but somehow you just can't catch warmth,
here.

and i said all of the things that i'd
needed to say but if not
why's it matter,
either? what a curse;
am i sad?
am i happy?
am i just over it?

& is that just the same
as giving up?

last night, i
sent a wish to the moon, whose
free-spinnin' light cut ochre
circles around pallid circles
through the fractured cloudlines,
and was always, always aware
of the cold, calm, and splintered
heaviness inside me. little voice,
tied around some fingers, leaching
into the streams of my very own thought.
humming: why do i continue to idle?
yes, i play waiting games. no
small question why. those modes are
concrete and understood. but why, then
do these games revolve around filling
my head with poison, when preservation
matters, now - now that i don't foresee
a continual blankness in meaning, anymore?

i am sick of these poisons. i am sick
of these postures. same cycles of words.
i am sick of knowing that i am full well
in control but still give in for the sake
of.. what, habituation? for some mutually-
assured self-destruction? worst of it all
is watching everyone you try to love
crumple up in their own weaknesses, by
each other's hand.

do you just let go of what won't be fixed?
do i just go into hiding,
watch it all slough itself away?
even if it'd hurt that much more?

of course, i stood, queasy, at the riverside,
and could not, for the life of me, read straight
the lines in my gut. lord knows,
lord know, what delusion i sank into,
for my own grand mid-day consolations.

is it cowardice, or selfishness, to need to
save yourself first?

cold into the streets, i found
no salvation inside last night, as
usual: the stone walls were
slick, and, through the tunnel
pack, i turned to the comfort
and disgust of suppressed life,
and decided not to climb. 'it
would be a shame to break
my neck, here', i uttered, in
the haze, to myself. clusters
of meaningless wandering thought.

before, i knew avoidance, like all
gods were lookin' down through
the world, and i could only curl and
hide my fears by inaction and the
movement of my fingertips over
nylon threads. same sad songs i
won't stop singing. think i'm the
thing drags me down, i'm the
only thing that i can't rid myself of,
and consonance comes round more,
these days, but hardly
all of 'em.

so, i spread feet under new and old
known and unknown streetlamps,
stared up at the cloud cover,
screamed at the tatters of the moon
aside stranger's houses,
shedding care.
but, all, and you, will be asleep or awake,
wherever my care's gone, and
it doesn't seem to be
here.

this city drains out of
my open arms.

swam placid through last night, or today, or is it all the same and continual? anyway, i found myself curled up in a lounge, alone, by a great fire. small, hidden beast i, frozen-still stars floating through, wondrous lopsided flesh against the ground; cradling tiny empty warmth, just where i wanted you. & smile. thunder through birdcries through dawn. wanderlust aching me out to the waves, threshing and soft, held at the hand of heavyset horizon. & think about miles. & fake smile. sometimes, our own oceans get rough. i'm so proud of you, though, keeping afloat. got home and muesli and songs and coffee and trees and ah. breathe. set utterances on the seabreeze. sent north n' west.
knots weave fine cycles in my head, like time around treestems. drifts of ocean mist, over inlet ridgeline, roar silent swells over the day. slow procession. slept enough for the both of us, trying to find you, immersed in soft clouds; dulled and fantastical. everything brims on the edge of everything else. a couple sparks away, in a small town somewhere, raining half the time, caught up, tangled in songs & sunsets. smiling gently into the light. i'll call it dawn, sooner or later, but still imagine your radiance, in stead.
bleary eyes and tiresome channels of blood but, small circling sparrow on the horizon, light through leaves, rivulets of smile bleeding up my cheek.
time's strange hands curl round and tie cycles; here, i was but a small chip in the woodwork. some little sharp snag life'd carved out, to grasp nothin' but air. but, somehow, the same air takes on resonance within the hum of my chest, tubelamps ever aflicker, and im sat staring, dead on, into the firm couch-material, trying to calculate the speed of sound from you to i. 'cause i swear i heard the impression of soft lips inch up next to my frozen ears, and in breath let wash warm reprieve, up and over me, and yes i am sad and terrified you too will fall into aches (which is explanatory for my perhaps often with-held-ness) and fold, just as terrified, away. never disallow one self's happiness, though. regardless if the meaning to it seems absent. just learn how yr smile works. and i hope i'm a crease, like sometimes you are the light pouring from my eyes. folding away. sometimes, you are, too, a smile brewing in the corners of my lids.
dreams form light clusters around my weary head. felt really strange today. inexplicable sadness, in the most beautiful things. saw you in people. little parts of you, everywhere, in voices and eyes. enough to fill me to the brim of connectedness. all these effervescent bubbles, so close to shimmering enough to be you, but never, ever you. much as i wish so. would if i had changed time, today or ten years. fabricate this daydream, i now weave slow on settling fingertips. the shock and sting of knowledge. your eyes. sweet smile. and the acres we've still got to pad through, stifling breath floes, changing stories at the tip of the stem. soft touch as dawn breaks. ghost, i know.

finally, i saw space in your eyes,
believin' something unnerving;
sent to lie, cold,
at vague degrees of separation.

i smile back at you,
or, at least, the shadow now
gone, along with your light:
meaning& memory
seep in monochome, sterile.
what, once, was the irreparable
i, sans toi?
the glisten of distant houses on the hill?
the ebb& swell, of the wash of our scenes?

sent spinning static tones:
keep slippin' down. keep changing.
keep the sun & stars.
keep heart.

caught, trembling-handedly, in the usual
act of wait. questioning cycles in the
sky, rift from day to day:
what is elementary? does
start or stop again sing
life into this void? the
vestiges of hurt are seeping
through, water in the brickwork.
with nothing caught on tongue,
silence just lies here, too, awaiting
hope or the end.

does it end? are we
just cycles in the sky? tiny burnt
and burning hands, to reach at one
another, from our shy corners?

no answer. just the dark out,
gently leaking in.

got
snowed on whilst walking. as if
everything froze, i, too, turned
to ice, within a moment. and
then fracturing, split and
scattered; forgetting the world,
lost in existence. a foot hit the
pavement once more, and trees
and streets revealed
themselves. and again, life was
static and stone.

"in how many languages are our spaces salvaged, or is there a difference?
when our lips meet, will we be speaking the same words?"

down some hall, she musters empty breath, unchanging lamps,
unflickering glint. he takes heavy& soundless steps. books
rearrange, every so eternal. so too do permute the walls, shadows,
patterns, and blotches of rain on the window. only a steady
and unequivocal pulse. the breath and heartbeat of the night's
containment. they mutter questions to bricks. they stand
still under streetlamps, frequently. as the gutter's rivulets
traverse, this town unfolds, like a map along the seams;
"along knives' edge, we exist," unheard, but still agreed upon
by some convoluted scheme. the handle around a corner,
lost from sight. evaporating memories. a season or second
feel the same, hiding behind doors & curtains. pale in
comparison. but, this has been here forever, or at least
four hours. "our slivers of humanity are laid out in
slight movements", once the inside begins hollowing. all
facets brimming with nothing. where once there was a
shuddering between walls rest expanses, unchanging.
each blade of grass, a glistening distance. each swaying
tree, splintering to essential motions. each muffled conversation
a jumble of letters. even glance and skin dissolve
to fragments of blinks.

-a bird sings on a windowsill,
a gentle breeze.-

we shiver our way, caught in rain-drifts.

in dreams, i
buckle knees, spark of flint
beneath
every unfolding seam,
every glistening lake,
each
tremulant dichotomy; we
sang songs, like:

the sky sinks, week by week, endlessly-
outcrop, crawling under tide.

stars caught, all in your eyes. all set alight.