Tipping the king. At midnight or so I take my clothes off in the moonlight, soft and pale in the moonlight, heart breaking in moonlight, why is it so hard to love me.
And begin.
Tossing dead chickens, empty carcasses courtesy of foxes, into tall grass near the skip of forest before the river. Unable to sleep, seeing the future. What ruins us, restores us, rehabilitates us, et cetera.
Prevaricating again. Are we, in the end, stuck with our selves? The gallows creaked a little, it took longer than we expected.
"Price of doing business," they used to say about literally everything that hurt, and I believed them, even after I stopped believing them I believed them. Her narrow shoulders in sunlight, leaning to tend to the tomatoes. How at a late juncture I see women.
It only hurts a little means what exactly. Summer moves quicker than expected, carrying us forward. Shitty iced coffee is my favorite!
Whiteness, witness. I learned early how to bury the dead, I never didn't not take death seriously. Not going to finish that study of melancholia, sorry Robert Burton.
Clarinet solos. Pulled in yet again: this this.
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