Snore dead pig, snore in looping tired wheezes, little light pink umbrellas open as air thrusts in, the suction makes a 'crow' of the umbrellas and out it goes, ripping tiny layers of dusty cellular post cards flying about in the air. Gone in the air like a sack thrown out of an air-plane, lost like an exhausted army of sperms, either inhaled or falling at the edge, gradually perishing, withering in slow dotty vertical trails as if squished against an imaginary hard glass wall, exuding out of accident, not red, but sticky turbid white scrolls of penile histories.
Punching in the body clock, by the end of this old year, miles of tons of heavy dithering words have been dished out. I set my heavy face to the heaving hillside and set my sad eyelids to the far ordinary clouds, my tongue laps up the green ripples, out of focus beneath the broom lashes. Long as a young girl I often kept repeating, "something good must come of it" But, now holding you from the handles of your narrow hips, trying to make you sync in, make square leg motions and awkward jumps...(Tortoise: Glass museum plays)I simply can make no promises.
Three little figs or two big berries, one ugly long toe nail or hexagonal rubies on the tongue. All can be touched and felt, seen and heard. In the soft underbelly of your soaking, bloating, pouting spilling, gradually I am drawn in. (Cul de sac: I remember nothing more). All I ask is to be indulged, to forget to write to be able to think of how to speak to make sense of things that make a difference to you can string me in and jerk it is to realize I am switched on the table nudging here and there is what is written. Is written. In wheezes of the pink pig again, the same snores mean a little different after our journey.