Sunday, 11 October 2009

Funny World #3

These walls are pissing people and liquid, both persisting on touching my shoulder, dribbling an intense feeling of vertigo limbs shaking and nagoy lips that float past my left tiffy viewer.

I stand nervously for ten minutes then sit and fall asleep. I can feel my heart beating outside of itself, am I still awake or is this idea just caught in my teeth?

There seems to be a crease in your sun, and all this time I'm gluing feathers to the moon, losing touch with these walls and becoming desperate for answers, I'll build a desert for all these thoughts.

A mirror looks at us both pretending, squirting skulls when it seems therapeutic. It hurts to know that Roman Polanski and Jean Luc Pickard hide in my head, provoking a broad and inclusive mind with lines per inch and a colour theory that tastes like shit. it's all a bit alien to me, let's just react and start to think that this is healthy.

Why have I not seen you? We are shooting up all this matter from a single source and all this seems to be actually happening now, all sprinkled with icing incorrect, sayings and falling diamonds. I'm losing interest in all these sharp folds. My beholding fingers and endless juxtapositions make it very hard to see things correctly.

If I write my name on you, will you belong to me?

She is everything at once, scattered and connected like azure seas and impossible birds. She looked like a velcro feeling, a disparate illustration of everything in between. Come back twice as strong, she said, take responsibility for anything in this surge of bezoominess.

She knows about these two kinds of visual emotions. The first time I called, she asked if we were miscommunicating or if I felt the same.

I wanted to hold you in this infinitely blissful electricity with emotional fingers and erupted words, but you never happened.

To see all these horses and numbers absorb the atmosphere and project it into fuck all, I don't even know what to do but at least I have you, little sausage cat, laid underneath that door. Meet me with a bunch of words from an intellectual document, entitled, watch what you're not so good at, internal cares and external somewheres-down-the-line, give me power and things that sometimes stop me from being.

I sit there stewing outside my head, eating nine pence noodles. I adore her.

Call me so I can feel that uneasy warm feeling again, I've not seen you and you haven't seen me inspired, and that's just the trouble, your beauty makes me stupid and I'm chasing this little touch of regret.

I love you, my secret whispering.

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