Talk about current events.
Talk about streetlights.
Talk about famine.
YHWH.
Burdock root.
Trout fishing.
Nothing to talk about.
If any proof was needed
I find all I can write about is writing.
Writing about writing?
Wasteful!
Talk about talking?
Drink about drinking?
Shit about shitting?
What can I say?
Code excites me.
It perks my mind.
I don't mean computer "code"
(That is not code at all).
I mean this.
This.
This code,
this cipher, this
attempt to
translate the zeitgeist
from its rottenness,
to pull its perfect
poisons from
beneath the
scum
that separates
what you see from
what you get.
I call it "scum" today.
Next week:
phlegm.
Next month:
Spiritual miasma.
Next year:
Aura's rev
(versus aura's exhaust).
The thin sewage of restraint,
a restless melancholy
beneath which sincerity sits,
that is my combat.
I could sweat it out in a sauna,
or by swimming in the ocean.
Feet and hands pressed
flat to the earth
I could pass it from my system
and into the primordial
backwash of our
wasted energy.
It would return,
that scum,
the accumulation,
yours wrapped in mine and
mine soaked in
cold memory.