Your breaking up the past again

At night after hours smashing it to bits

Plaster boards flailing dust smash gasp thump ridiculous

And the smoke from below hits the back of your throat

Choking half asleep broken in dreams broke awake not one place to escape to but

This rotten imagination that offers an open door saying run from this prison escape now while you’ve got the chance because the body is a prison too and it won’t last long

Other more optimistic people would say I’m wrong but they are just deluded we all know that

the flower analyst responds to accusations of brutality

The pain of life is a reflection of your indifference to death it is special nurture it coax it feed it grow it sow it stow it. Use your blowhole like a spirit guide shove your spume into the world each time you resurface grabbing what you can for the descent back down again into the daily depths of the oceans dark dominion or something like that obviously try to suggest a greater good a spirit leading towards what you might suggest could be a thing that will save your mind from neurological tremors and thought whips that lash and sting the minds horizon with indigenous poisons that roughly unfurl into luxurious purple gasses like the ones in Batman from the 1960’s.

Within the silent second of a breath

Is the thingness of the thing

Shiny enticing glimpses

That make your heart beat faster

Not knowing anything 

Knowing everything about a small nothing

Glad to be on this spot now knowing everything and nothing all at once

Like breathing 

Is a miracle

Like the moth still alive in a pack of spinach

We survive 

But our bodies weakness is the enemy of consciousness

If art puts truth to work then the body is art and the truth is the work of life

But what does that grinding of stone signify?

The need to dwell? To remain in one place, in order to work, is this the truth you were looking for. Sat staring out on the wettest day of the year

The rain tears over the roof.