i forgot about this blog. i thought it deserved some kind of conclusion, like all things.
so here's something relatively recent that i think constitutes a conclusion of sorts.
Thoughts escaping into the distance as they chase each other. The abstract future collapses into a gyre that reappears at my feet. In everything I can see lines of creased aging and things that haven’t happened yet. My lips move with the folding of the waves and the platitudes that reek of convention and conformity. A handful of dust spreads itself outwards and climbs up my arm, roughed edges into the side of my neck.
Last night the moon was close and yellow like the insides of my fingers. It blurred behind waves of smoke from my lungs but stayed stuck into the dark cloudy sky like a nail in the back of your head.
I felt lost in the silence of the night in an unusual way that’s hard to trace. Waiting for a response that will break apart in more silence.
I am not this body sitting writing and waiting as time pirouettes around the circles under my eyes.
Stitches of apathy around my spine and non sum qualis eram.
I want to write like Eliot, Pound, Auden, Plath, Yeats, H.D., Oliver, Keats, Bukowski, Atwood, Cohen, Bishop.