Thy Empty Forms
i am up alone, burning down the spark. tired but not sleepy. broken pro means silent nights, and for all my enthusiasm for dancing (if you dance too much very longer, you'll be known as the boy who's always dancin'...rings through my head.) i find myself homebodying it this weekend. room cleaned, laundry done, everything in its right place before drunken disasterous failings of technology quieted these corners...
i'm left to find wine-plied consolation in kindred wet spirits (conrad) and kinness in other deserted, lonesome desolate angel travellers (kerouac). i have done a lot of reading--who needs friends when you've got books, right?--but still find the lack of overwhelming friend-circles' constant goings-on and to-dos disquieting, and with lack of technological invisible wires stretching cross vast ponds, have no means of contacting those many-hearted busy callings.
it is quiet. all's quiet on the preston front--mayhaps i still need more friends, or closer-ones--since i struggle to find the strength to always be alone in quietude, even in this state of rapid growth evolutionary wisdom.....
relationships gone, even rightly so, pulled that support out from underneath my carefully arching feet like so many tabletop magic tricks--still leaving with a void i feel continually, but not ready for the filling of that emotional heartspace no matter how the soma cries out for intimate sensory nourishing of said great void. my, but i was yar!!!
red-light district all around as aura lit up, attracting, attracting, attracting. human electromagnet, my gravity too great to bear, now reduced to something foreing in this cold, hard difficult-to-navigate english world. ah, but somewhow i (gratefully?) managed to find the switch off--who knows what colors my many-hued rainbow is exuding now!? --and yet wish on occasion for the great power of on-again, off-again lightswitch raves at will. don't we all?
how easy it is to fall off the map in this place. how strange it is to be anything at all.
somewhere inside me, the canary of my heart catches in its birdribcage, climbing those bones like so many laders, and flitting about--trying desperately to reach somewhere at the top of this gilded thoracic cage, struggilng to meet the sphenoid swallow soaring in my skull. swallowing pemmican, she learns and grows wise to what is safe. i carry her around as a touchstone--is this survival? i know no longer where i, my own desolate angel, fear to tread.
i'm left to find wine-plied consolation in kindred wet spirits (conrad) and kinness in other deserted, lonesome desolate angel travellers (kerouac). i have done a lot of reading--who needs friends when you've got books, right?--but still find the lack of overwhelming friend-circles' constant goings-on and to-dos disquieting, and with lack of technological invisible wires stretching cross vast ponds, have no means of contacting those many-hearted busy callings.
it is quiet. all's quiet on the preston front--mayhaps i still need more friends, or closer-ones--since i struggle to find the strength to always be alone in quietude, even in this state of rapid growth evolutionary wisdom.....
relationships gone, even rightly so, pulled that support out from underneath my carefully arching feet like so many tabletop magic tricks--still leaving with a void i feel continually, but not ready for the filling of that emotional heartspace no matter how the soma cries out for intimate sensory nourishing of said great void. my, but i was yar!!!
red-light district all around as aura lit up, attracting, attracting, attracting. human electromagnet, my gravity too great to bear, now reduced to something foreing in this cold, hard difficult-to-navigate english world. ah, but somewhow i (gratefully?) managed to find the switch off--who knows what colors my many-hued rainbow is exuding now!? --and yet wish on occasion for the great power of on-again, off-again lightswitch raves at will. don't we all?
how easy it is to fall off the map in this place. how strange it is to be anything at all.
somewhere inside me, the canary of my heart catches in its birdribcage, climbing those bones like so many laders, and flitting about--trying desperately to reach somewhere at the top of this gilded thoracic cage, struggilng to meet the sphenoid swallow soaring in my skull. swallowing pemmican, she learns and grows wise to what is safe. i carry her around as a touchstone--is this survival? i know no longer where i, my own desolate angel, fear to tread.