Tagging blind with a man

Throwing the head back in laughter or the folding the laughter back in the head, he dispels all the doubt as I breathe into sudden normalcy. But, to think of it, I had been hoping for exactly the opposite somewhere deep down, no deepest, at the same pit of the vertical well of spiraling madness that hangs just a rung, suspended from my stomach. I was lifting and depositing huge boulders of literal, dried, thickened cement there and going in an eight formation only to collapse in the last shadowy cold portions of the caves that sprout from each spiral section of the stairwell. The well is just one of the morbid fleeting emotions you evoke when you bind me up in circular posters and plaits of black cloth, hook me by the arm and take me on a stroll in some black cube. It blinds me, little fleeting betrayals of emotions, all terrified, all jutted and ashamed, melting, drowning and sinking in my own lugged, gassed flipping doors, one by one, open and close, close then open, then regret then relapse, resolutions, I knew the better of me then, or wait! It is now that I have what I should. I am blind, not seeing but hearing the constant mumble, the low rumble, that like of leaves, of the only language I have not known, of bolted bronze locks, thud! The sound of the world tightly knotted in your fists while you strut me around the arm, of the only little place that I cannot squiggle into. All remedies in vain. I am begging on the knees and searching each inch of the relic for overlooked openings. Such terror of the polished beauty, sure of its worth. Makes you feel all sand like, being poured again and again, slithering effortlessly down to the same ground, squirming in limited ability.

First of the heartfelt fuzzy farewells

To,
Missus Literature clad in elaborate sequined shawls and beautiful saris, standing like the Marianne with a more urgent cause on the brink of a literary revolution. The churner of all the plodded fat greasy brains in my half fantasy and half nightmare of a real classroom. To study, to learn, to write, to talk, pose and proclaim poetry, misquoted paragraphs of long dead revolts, all this comes carefully arranged in an embroidered exotic cloth bag to us Jezebels of the civilisation of coded clothes and numbered people. To foster such beasts, little devouring, completely shunning responsibility, dragging you in all mirth to the same marshes of pale drying grass and thorny mud dips, where the pride is of reclaiming the dirty, the thrown, the rejected, the drunk and smashed heap of pigs with a guitar, crooning to silly dead mean of the long past revolts. How your eyes gleam at revolt? How pitifully naively you indulge in the big fat project of futile trips to the past, kitschy mimicking of hope fuelled trips to glory? Coming in, like a mad little swirling wave, the seriousness of a physicist and the aspiration of a young girl who furiously paints by the sea. Such ridiculous statements, you. Such painful flogging, like a swarm of moths we do. Tongue that stutters while drifting into reveries like you, mind that sticks so faithfully clerklike to the residual prudish modest writing. That which sifted and escaped in three years of rigorous iron-cut literary studies, needed the hoarse barking of a lily you.
In what you and I share and bleed for in our secret conversations, and for all the smirks that others who stuff our blank dazes with, we gladly saved what we both love dearly. Suspicion of my fate has it that someday I might be pounding head similarly on some other grey walls, that could be my only giftworthy promise to you.