I'm okay. I am going to Egypt tomorrow where I will do lots of work and write something interesting. I am becoming increasingly obsessed with Kafka and Max Brod. Read In The Penal Colony please.
I want to go back to sunnier days, sunnier photos to come though. Rancid, sweltering photos masking family feud! I cannot wait.
I love these two beyond reason
It is pitiful;
When love
Stares still the same but still desirable;
The, the shirts, the skin, the prick to fertilize my own talent and verse
The locomotive of success and the revulsion of feminin*
Of which I laboriously type into engines to locate a source of the same thing
Some intelligence * categorised with other intelligent*’ because they’re all the same
Pit of innocence, the warm stench lingers about my personage
Wishing I could grant access-all-areas to those words I hate
And whisper, amongst sobs, sweet things, Constancy, Committed, Creativity
I can’t do anything, but I can dance with my eyes closed
Dreaming of skin on breast on nose on palm
You are used, sir, manifesting my own inadequacy
The male gaze is a skill, but there’s a gap in the market left wide open
For you, If you didn’t exist neither would she
Really, I love, but I am repulsed
Leaden eyes, the colour red, the only photographs I have on my wall are from times past
Three years, the halcyon representative of the lack of some instant and momentary
(Possibly falsified)
It was there though.
I’m still here too.
A scientist, a heroine, never the handyman, nor the hero,
ever the domestic, possibly a groupie, a rival, a creation.
Ex. Delivery boy? An expert.
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