nothing left to say on the subject there, really, it's been done to death, my feet hurt and i'd like to go home,
been extending the definition of home recently and it makes my stomach sick,
(sick as compared to what) - bitter and granular, sticking my fingers in spots i ought to leave,
i ought to leave,
i ought to leave -
operative word being Ought, as in Should, as in Strictly Hypothetical/Sentimental,
i hold the sentiment the same, creeping up my arms like fingers like bugs,
like lovers like insects, and hey man, 'you look good for your age' really is eating a posturing maturity,
holding that line like it's worth anything at all, tangling around branches i've been unravelling around
all through this town, taking Home As A Feeling into my own hands,
fumbling fingers construct something i can pretend just enough to hold hope in,
telling me you're melting and i know what you mean,
i get it i get it i understand,
you understand we're speaking the same language we're the same,
offhanded comments, sidelining an audience for insistance that there's a difference between us -
dissipate and dissolve,
down the drain again wiping spittle from idle bystanders, been ten years and you can't grieve what you can't remember, like rain filling crystal ashtrays like flies under drawn blinds,
like unwashed bedsheets and the stink of something dead under the floorboards,
like looking through fenceposts for those we buried like seeing faces in sinkwater, like waxing prophetic to strangers,
absence of conflict - reflections catch my peripherals looking like intruders looking like somebody elses son, like years exhaled before i had my chance,
fate is cruel but intention bounds worse, catching up to sapling esotericism, i bet you're anywhere else tonight -
psychic projection motherfucker, are you receiving me, finding seeds stuck in your teeth spat into sidewalk cracks,
think the milks gone off think we're out of bread think we're out of soap,
back again so soon, think you forgot i ever left, do you notice when i'm here, casting shades of red like a child left inside too long,
rocks in my boots and webs catch like hair in the fireplace,
i can smell it on you, boiling over stovetops like maternal resentment like walking mud through the bedroom like, like, like,
like so many analogies and metaphors and obfuscations of inately very mundane topics that balance my breath in acts -
not quite filling ritual space but moreso a burden upon bruises painting anything, anything's better than stagnation, attach yourself to momentum leading straight to asphalt,
collision impact rhetorical plans, hanging on your words like spoiled milk,
abcess romance two week token three days removed, time goes somewhere and that's about as far as i've figured things for myself, years not borrowed but bequeathed -
looking at me like silent amusements like missed subtexts,
like routines just a fraction off, like nuclear family like incestuous guilt like exposure therapy,
avoiding the sidewalk cracks and sprouting weeds and the slip-ups, skip three stones and flip the lightswitch on the hour, these things show you really love me,
petals fall round leave plastic litter me round, like we've never met (like you hadn't noticed),
drawing lines in the sand and i'll keep walking deeper, wet socks wretched cosmic curses throwing dust in my mouth i think it might rain,
question left unasked (signing my emotional sophistication, self-sufficiency, carrying my own weights in model masculinity) -
giving dosmesticity without question, comfortable silence, sit at a distance expected of absolute unthinking, the thought hadn't occurred to you, i'm sure, fucker, god,
scraping against gut-biome grasping signalling peace and grief and pits i know i have no right to put myself in, taking home and to heart the concept of putting myself right to the bottom,
concrete slam poetry surgery scabs pulling out your stitches with my teeth, hitting me like a false idol to hold my (quotation marks withheld;) infection,
astral bodies taken in hand and at the end, it's all really piles of fucking garbage, isn't it, Death Of The Ego by means of absolute cynicism,
scraps of paper start to look like a lifetime wasted on chasing reflections, externalise things in the guise of total exorcism but therapy starts looking like a corpse by its own right,
looking like any count or vote of relapse, love like misanthropy like asking nicely like begging,
like model psychological standing and tactical confidences and tacit disclosures,
substance artillery hipster bullshit needling pinprick dalliances,
like confiding in a friend like biding time like writing letters like abstract confession in sorry words,
take aim on platonic kindnesses,
looking me in the eyes like a teenage fistfuck