billowing voluminous rage, or maybe some kind of staccato, punchiness… (i should ne’er started drinkin’ coffee again) i’m finding only a great hollowness where my brain used to be and there’s no sixways about it. contrariwise, maybe my brain’s there, but surrounded by a great absence where my body used to be… feeling these fingers quivering like a nervous mirage, popping out for a beer to avoid the clutchy Old Man Winter.
that being…? how am i tapping out these… mandricles… of… and… where’s…?
felt, some kind of caterwauling, some kind of sea-rage. some kind of fabricated remorse (with patterns like you’d find on those paper towels… for what purpose? porpoises? you see>>>!~?) or rather, finding the limits of my capability of expression.
oh, cackles cackles, ho.
it’s like standing beneath a great heaving waxworks, gearworks, ironworks, heaving and scraping and straining and clogging above, it’s heavy earthenwork tonnage breaking the air… only to find the fucking linch-pin pinching beneath the shoe-sole… a brief second of… recognition? awareness? before the whole thing comes crashing down…
or, maybe, old man coyote’s done tricked me into holding up the whole world all by my lonesome.
feeling that futility. feeling that cold awareness, realizing that it’s all been sort of a waste of time. that that whole world’s been holding itself up forever and a day now. what use is that small part of blood spilled from a stone?
hey, maybe i’m just feeling the cold dread: the year’s dying, and the heaving gravestones are looming louder. and soon the whole clock’s going to tick over, in a slightly meaningless sort of way… feel those new year boddings rattle! watch those bloogyres spin and tortle!
item: the eyes feel pinched and swollen: are they red?
item: feel that warm bloom in the cheeks, the first sign of…?
item: this head is bobbling a bit too freely on its neck; starting at imagined sights at the corners of the eyes; watch this jackanapes gallylogging down the hallway!
item: feel the headhair standing; and all those neck hairs curling at some, slow creeping…
item: that knee just can’t seem to stop bobbing…
item: and why are the feet draining into pools of sweat?
item: feel that burning in the core, torso, self: is this rage? or some heated indigestion? and how does a body tell the physiologickal from the neurochemickally-induced alarums?
i’m no fucking hypochondriack. this is getting more difficult (as I said before): the depth of my feeling versus my disability to express same. feel that yawing gulf, that vasty wall. or whatever pit and pool, or snap and dragon that keeps those skeeving kinds apart. or what. or maybe. it’s more like: my disability to safely expunge or exorcise these things from down there, deep in the belly. anyone have a herd of swine i could run off a cliff?… but i jest, satisfying as that might be…
I am expressed therein, I think, or thought, when reading, and not writing. It’s not not writing, exactly: the burden of poof over there where I’ve carved out my little slab is heavily weighed upon my crook, it seems, and the heaving and hoving aren’t getting me nowheres. It’s not dire, but something. As I drift further away I feel on one hindleg a freedom, on the other a remorse.
I’m hidden beneath it sometimes.
the thing that drives a burrrrr up my spine, is the think that all this sloshing brainness has to do with the environmental reverberations: am i some kind of harp string, going slack in the damp air?
…rage, rage against the dying of the light!