WIND FROM NORTH NORTH EAST
In my writing with my fingers is not like watching a beautiful film, sometimes in film the vision is realized.
I am distrustful of the eyeball, the two balls that have moved from the sack to the eyesockets the eyes eyes.
Women’s eyes are not balls they are more like pores or skies. The skies jetting from the lady socket lockets. These eyes melt through the bone and through the veins and tiny tunnel secrets even to the tips of finger tongue finger lickings like this.
The power of finger licking like finger licking the keyboard ribs juicy with funk bacteria oil and anxiety is in the sweat. Sweat but a shadow of the soul’s soulskin. In the forgotten words that continue to be truly forgotten especially as they are commemorated. I prefer the ones like botched chocolates to pop in and dissolve for a short high, paradoxical ecstatic pasts.
Round-a-bout I am saying that my muscly thin hot dog finger fingernails dig crust first into the melk gland. The texture of melk, the texture of meaning, even as the digital information glorily scrapes the sugars of the eyeballs, is what shimmers hopelessly beneath.
The tiny traumatic reverberations twist back and to and flow and back back back. Back that slopes and breaks and out flows spinal fluid back. What is left after a beautiful movie is the echo echo of apathetic trauma. Still the melk flows most for disembodied suffering. Joy is almost what hurts the most as it crystallizes salt raw. Medication hooks into the soft soft ball eye seeping fastly and furiously. There is no way to record it but with my fingertongues tonging giving shape and evolving limbs to the dark dimlings.
Weird quiet seal poultice.
Huge tears of fat crying crying. The unsaid
word behind the dense ball eye suddenly burst
and the vulgar hermeneutic landscape bubbled into life.