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 .
.
.
spring time
everything crawling
up
& out
.
as the wind doze blow
my sad in festering joyous self
through wires
.
musicality draws life onwards endlessly
the way typing this out is a naturally budding thing
.
Am I a plant? I wish I was a plant.
I think I am a plant.
reaching towards the sun?
.
everything downpours eventually
sew this is all just water flowing
 
melting freezing melting pouring pooling
.
evaporating
.
this is air
makes a sound
.

music reaches directly into the softcore of my being

dissecting every line
.
speaks into the centre of my bleating heart
.
why would i ever stop listening?
.
being seen. being heard. being truly sound.
unsound
that’s the rub.
.
.
.
glut of stories untold untelling

life is beautiful and in puddles

.

wee fondle and finger the absent image
it still burns
.
.
.

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oval shapes

ups wells

affixed into

t h in   a i r

 

that familiar gaping feeling

(the one we were borne with)

dampens every crevasse

for ever (giving berth)

 

wet seeps into dry

wearing a way at the edges

pressing oneself against itself

weeps intuit

 

( m u m   i s   cr y in g )

 

forwards   r e c ed e s

 

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Great emptiness as

simple as that went

So straight before-

 

had not been able

then not being idle

went absent away

 

Now faith is not what we

hereafter have we have a

world resting on nothing

 

Rest was never more than

abstract since it is empty

reality we cannot escape

 

from “Souls of the Labadie Tract” by Susan Howe