1. |
don't open till doomsday
05:00
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|
Memory is itself a fugue
Me, a cloud, trying to reign it in
Residues collected there
like dew on grass that I despise
wouldn’t be so bad
Just if I could condense, be solid
make the appropriate observations
not living in a fog but as a fog
The gloom and danger on a fall night
the pain of a dull stretching ache
settling into the joints with a sharpness
that jolts and mobilizes
taking the ground in my hands
squeezing it into a figure
I’ll be here then as now
an ambivalence marked by intensity
always having been in hiding
it will be drawn out
with each defeat
doomsday is postponed for at least one more day
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2. |
sheets/dirt
05:01
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|
I’m a scared kid under the covers
You’ll never find me here
I’ll never know what’s coming
I won’t know what hit me
and it will hit me so fucking hard
the fibers are rough but it’s okay
I want this to be somewhere else
I want to go away
And If I didn’t fall in love
with anyone that says hello
maybe I could sink into the sheets
haunt this place for real
come back to ghost you
and it won’t matter
and I won’t feel a thing
I’m a scared kid living in this large body
yet I won’t displace more of the ground
than anyone else, probably
I won’t know what hit me
and it will hit me so fucking hard
the dirt is heavy but it’s okay
I want this to be somewhere else
I want so bad to stay
And If I didn’t fall in love
with anyone that says hello
maybe I could dissolve into the dirt
haunt this place for real
come back to ghost you
and it won’t matter
and I won’t feel a thing
|
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3. |
unnatural habitats
04:02
|
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|
Is this the day? Is this the beginning of the end? There is no time to wonder. No time to ask why it is happening, why is it finally happening. There is time only for fear, for the piercing pain of panic. Do we pray? Or do we merely run now and pray later? Will there be a later? Or is this the day?
toothache in arm
eyes itch
headache in back of neck
feel removed
in limbo
thoughts removed
dreaming of already dreamed dreams
the nothing is my own invention
galvanize myself to to grapple with it
the enemy the woven fibers
I find myself tangled up in
not where anyone is meant to live
if anyone is meant to at all
reassuring thoughts of some external framework breaking down
rather than just random chance
it’s not just random chance
|
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4. |
||||
|
nothing created or destroyed
just managed, modified
a bureaucracy of forms
and I feel like someone
mishandled the paperwork
at some point, must have
law of the conservation of the framework
but never the material, total expenditure of all energy
procrastination as a remedy for having failed
shuffling the papers around
bullshitting but not lying
feeling like a kid playing at a game
that only the older kids understand
just some small gathering of dust
pulled up from the floorboards
I’m just passing through
the weather goes in a cycle
even when you’re in another one
the ship tips over under the weight of everything that furnishes it
and the planks are different than they used to be
the principle of sufficient reason to get out of bed
things get more complex over time at the expense of fundamental laws
just another shuffling, the illusion of creation
|
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5. |
||||
|
There is no me
bright oblivion
There is a voice
droning calm
In a head
There is no past
damaged container
contents spilled
There is no me
desires instead
There are two voices
that overlap
looking forward to what’s been
I turn around to catch a glimpse
of what’s to come
It trembles over my shoulder
There is no you
sinking in
There is a void
we circle around
There is no hope
it comes and goes
There is a ringing
That sounds out
looking forward to what’s been
I turn around to catch a glimpse
of what’s to come
|
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6. |
the lateness of the hour
06:09
|
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|
there’s no difference between being made to perform a mindless task
and being made to feel something
both processes dependent on inputs and outputs
electricity pulsing in patterns
not a machine, no analogies
everything running in circles
only pulsing to make more
the hour must eventually become late
one either does or does not eventually rebel
everything kept, perfect, swirling,
seeming to pull inward but keeping it just at arms length
a hand turned spiral, inertial yet static
and so it’s come to this, something that seems to end
just becoming something else, will remember itself
or breaking the children’s toy, possibly misplaced aggression
nowhere to go from there, maybe stubbed toes, splintered fingers
|
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7. |
call of the void
02:44
|
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|
I hear that bell ringing,
I feel that voice calling again
it’s not mine and it’s not yours
but it’s familiar
the smell of wet leaves or linoleum
a day from a long time ago
and how many times
I might still have left to remember it
I hear that bell ringing
I feel that weight bearing again
lay me down
somewhere soft and warm and safe
lay me down
somewhere I’d like to be
|
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8. |
repeating
07:40
|
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|
I’m never not alone
time lies and joy is some temporary escape,
something soft and warm and fake
everything outside less real than the interior
thoughts coil around me
or I around them, suffocating slowly
Everything closing in, nowhere else to go
We’re going home
and by we I mean me in this forever tense
If I am, death is not, If death is, I am not
I am afraid, yes
not like a child
the unfathomable in the everyday
waves crasshing up to meet me
running myself into a brick wall
or into the ground over and over
upset by the fact that memory is fallible
that images are graveyards
even as they circulate around
no questions of degradation
just over and over, around and around
forever repeating
but we will be, oh god will we be
and oh god will we be, just us forever repeating
information never depleting, just us
forever repeating
|
||||
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