is morning’s militant clarity. coffee. news. the sustained
and grinding shock, of keeping up, of getting on. this is
being. a bad mood cultivates mass. i am not at my best.
i’m away from my desk. the whole world is going to
stumbled extremes. three chord septic turmoil, an ill
wind waxing on daily politics, file on four, on pmqs.
go outside: an odour of growth in green spaces,
pungent suds of bittercress and wild chervil, a smell
like mildewed body heat. i think of you. and here comes
the long weekend: dissatisfied litany, feeble excuses:
i can’t. i’m spiralling, far gone in my own slow orbital
debauch. i dream about you, your body, your impossible
particulars, fingerprints like weather systems, tenting
to a storm. i am lost – she says, melodramatically –
blood’s bright consistency, finicky sigils of self harm.
the brain swims in stinging light and…
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