What was I thinking? Mari. Ah. The mother in her rots
and divulges itself, rolling like invisible green stitched hills of sludge out
the pore of the earth. There is so much anger there, did she recognize in real
time what she wanted from her attraction of me. I pick flies up, they canoodle
in my cavern of a nostril, I can identify them hair by minutae hair. Ah. Mari.
What? Did you want me to bring you happiness, bring you my eternal rosy checked
child that sits in my well and sings lullabies to sleep and while in sleep. I
don’t recognize the point, I don’t recognize her state, shes kept it so locked
up, the fly has flown away. Her sludge slips back up and in, and yet I still
want to touch her. To be close to her, my idea of her. No, the soft her that I
see beneath the sludge, the shiny pink conch shell that is far past flirted
with grime. We are two aloof crabs in the coasts of courtship. We met pincer to
pincer and neither clawed soft shell. But that is how I am, my skittering will
carry on. My deep fed desire for my mother’s love in precious other female
spirits will haunt me forever more. Delightfully so. Things come full circle,
and as another bloody knuckle tore wall for me, I tear wall up in the Boldt.
Strange, being aware of your Oedipus complex and being fine with it. Nothing to
be not fine about, as I see. Yet in Mari, there is not sweet. There is neutered
fruit, crisp and tart, and breaking my teethe. Ah. Mari. And yet here I type,
tippy tappy along, crab crawling, soul divulgin’, sludge diverging, livingroom
of this living groom. Why, Mari? Why the long face. Will I have to write a song
about how you pin pricked my record player face. How did I flittingly follow
your tune? What was there that I could birth? And what of this now, here, this
tippity typing. What of it? Why do I find the need to one-two binary code my
fee-ling. Or lack thereof. What do I feel for her….lust, disgust, …..ah the
nurturer in me looms! Oy vey. I could see the possible symbiosis, I could
imagine it.
And there, there it is. The culprit. Imagination.
Devastation. No, carnation and re- re-re-re-re incarn[innate
ascend]ion.
I can imagine
us, as I can every psycho-lover that enters my womb of a forest, my pine-treed dilettante,
my evergreen serenade.
I take what I can work with, and work with it wonders. Work
it to wonder.
To full of wonders, until it is transformed, and in my state
of quixotic thunderlust, I fall like acid rain, disheveled and pulling up the
scratchy-clothed socks of lethargy.
Too much gain, turn down the speakers ac/dc, ah I see
deceit. Self deceit. My favorite fool of a took. Tool of a fool, book of a fucking
dedicated to the Self.
I am learning to be alone. To be without the obsessive
mother impulse that drives me through water like a blinded hydra.
Love.
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