I am still here in the belly of the beast:
the sour wine of every ocean’s discard slopping round my banks
the distant call of some strange nation’s fog horn lights.
my teeth grow ever crooked more and I can’t walk these heaving halls without the picture of you in my head
you in the general sense, I guess
making a scattered quiet nest of all the plucked out brow hairs and letters unresponded, perhaps I will sleep easy when all obligations are–not completed but discarded, like a witness name escaped.
imagine here a large white bed of feather down and pleasing textures, a tan prince body in mid-morning sun, steaming cups of tea and dedicated pleasures
I am forever running myself into the ground because I belong in the dirt
perhaps all this is a clever excuse for my disposition, mournful and antic in turns (
the hamlet that i was gave no warning to the ophelia i also was)
what music this then that seethes and rages in all my blood
and I am always so cold, and the night too quiet, when I am trying, alone, to sleep.