uninspired by events of late, or rather, maybe some deep hibernation or gestation that some others would like to see the end of… where’s the contrary nosedive, or fandango, not the greasy one, but the old fashioned, tarantella, or…
breaking out of some kind of feeble mindstate, where the old nefarious patterns start to reravel themsalves. backbiting innuendoes and shallow spiralling shapes reveal themselves again, cold hunches lurching out of the fog. lighthouse? nah, it’s burnt out in that blaze of glory, six wweeekk, erm, so, or maybe it’s some giant fish peninsula looming, don’t step on the slimy bag or who knows what all guts will ooze outta there. like all the world, the mind’s become an untied shoe, slooping around loose up there, hauling and loofing about. there’s that yearly (biyearly) feeling, the drowning in text, and electropixelation, the stabbing out, when the eyes feel testy and weak from tearing at the edges of things. all the details shunting forward and why’nt the peoples keep their edges to themselves? when the edges blur, it’s hard to stay… apart.
like like, then the cracks and details, and fibered hairy edges, and skin flaws and, just, what is this aesthetic madness? when every weakness and error(?) cries out, nails scratching on a chalkboard. the visions and sounds eating out precious brainspace, maybe, vultures hunched over with spoons. it’s all about too too much or… what’s the crankcase got wrong with it? why the irritation caused by any old thing, by every old thing? when even the textual errors(inside the normally soothing, straightmarching lines of prose)poke dirty fingers in the eyes. gasp for breath, and try to remember, deep deep breath, slow.
feel that brain fall into separate pieces. here there’s a thought, here there’s a headshake, barely controlled, and here there’s a handclutching the rail… or maybe it’s that things seem faded into an unreal haze. where’s the sense that things’re solid, not fluid, that everything mightn’t just swirl away down the drain, leaving… what? is that the dear dreariness? the fear that beneath it all? what? fumbling for that old certainty, maybe, that there lies some deep meaning beneath the clouded feet, that some hard stone lies next, and not some juddering, terminal edge at all. oh, and he can feel the brain inside his head, feel that fuzzing, the chords misfiring into strange strange moods.
to be sure, all the caffeination isn’t helping, but better the fizzing yesness of it, than some moribund alternative there waiting, cloaky, the dread stillness and what lies after. juice for the gander, or somewhat like. it’s a brain run by committee, or like, some squabbling racket. and not one in a dozen seems to have a sense of where they’re headed and first it’s one way, then another.
simple causes: maybe it’s just the monthy lack of sun keeping the brain from zooming along on its untethered trace. maybe there’s some mechanical function, some dietary piece that needs fitting, some mundane item that’s being overlooked. where’s the manual for this puzzling machinery? where’s the tape to patchwork the holes and soft places? to hold two things together until, well, the need is done. what kind of juryrigging will keep this sod afloat for along along? shoe rubber and ceiling twine, castor oil and glue. bone and gear and shank of hair.
