Erik (eriktrips) wrote,

still life

sink in the drink where winecasks meet and follow it out to the logical conclusion. sixteen sucking stones. a pocked face and it was a real shame. when i was young i didn't have to worry about it so much. one way in which i suppose i was let off easy. tiny muffins and the real deal where they brought you a meal before death. once at seven i saw it and caught my breath. we linger. who lingers. we linger. there is time still. the night watchman.

failure of will. i read about it once it was a long book and had much to say and i remember all of it that is to say i remember very little of it except for that part which touched me which impressed me which bruised me which irresistibly kissed me. snow in the mountains or one could say a man above and slightly to the left. one of the two it seems. what are the wages of wandering. fire and brimstone and we used to light the sulfur and sniff the air and act disgusted though really we were delighted. realizing fully one cannot say anything of the sort in all seriousness but say for instance it happened that way. say for instance.

space food sticks.

i have wanted to say that for a long time. we would skirt the river in the dark and sometimes fall in and i never could win as i couldn't pee standing up like they could but at night at least it didn't matter so much to crouch down behind a tree no one would see and you felt almost as free but not quite. dressing gown. we were not grown but nearly so.

i know the space between the trees is sometimes narrow but we must press on. boards together neatly greet the shadow and dust that flies in the beam why scream out. one dreams of it. lee. leeway. amway. they rode on. the cathode ray tube and stay where little soldiers creep and pray no play and no soldiers. in like a lion. their eyes would fix and dilate. that was all we could see because there was no more to be seen except the residue. freezer burn.

i couldn't say it and didn't say it and wouldn't want to say it.

that is a lie.

take two confusing words if memory serves but who deserves what is made of them.

[to be continued]

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