If writing is Masterbation, I have breached the Mojave. This is a deserted belch.

Mar 04, 2018 18:38

This is a break. a breakthrough entry that relieves some of the linguistic tension caught up/ seething/ the whet shale, plaque-like desposits whom decorate the living room between my frontal cortex and my sinus cavities, swelling glows, lighting up the silences like it's fucking christmas (in March. Calendrial mistakes happen). Still. Santa is too fat and busy for the chimney. No presents//no presence.

[HDs honey spilt over my swollen, cracked lips, and hardened in breath pave'd and scaffold'd against the relief of a ray, populated and overcrowded until there lives, no shadow, no form, just cells--duplicates of duplicates ignorant of the natural perfume that once permeated the space outside the Here, then. A miscarriage of Source. But now, we are left to lick the stale pollen from our plump dull mouths, irritated and disoriented--drooling in our dislocation. Lost, but under the impression that we've arrived. Assimilate! The lolling tongue splits, the teeth fall out of the argument; the pavement burns through us. Footprints in ash; a map for ghosts.]

Hortense Fiquet. I am. Stuck in a canvas jar. Never able to, bite down to the quick. Emotional tummy-aches. The stain has set.
Calibri is a repulsive font.

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