Between all of us like a Wavy Halo Form
The long river of the unconscious where we all
are home, tossing planets and asteroids aside. The
yawning drag of orbit I haven’t breathed since I got
back from Paris, the oomph is real. The soundless
silent and the voice of the voice; there’s little time.
In time we might have to be the first to go. The cycle
of birth and death: pressure, seeped in blues, carries
deep echoes of the dotcom boom and bust. Wile
E Coyote is still beneath the soft space and press
back down. The universe under our skin like carpet.
I go in to feel a sound and a feel, crawl inside the
blood brain/ear/brain and look around inside the
shadowy corners with half-light and half-darkness:
three in the morning. Contrast this with the feel
of a hand coming out of a jacket, the sound of a
hand on a shoulder. Come close to sleep with the
heat rising off the pavement. I am tired to the bone
but I will not sleep for night-time is our friend.