Of Running Sheep
These aren’t electric
Uneven, steady,
crooked and kind, this.
Freud stoop’d in, blurry-eyed
in time, an infant
sever, ending Never
in beginning
we be damned
echo voices
come behind
the dampening and flutter
quarrels, logo
fell on icey
hell rise on
intangible
what i write
about it thirsty
great big chocolate
nail the vein
inner fluffer
ever present,
rings out reason:
thinnest line.
Smear: Dyslexic?
I feel bad about the fact that I can get some scibble-paper.
A little bit would be okay, and
All I Need
a few lines–
but the fear of losing them
having then “bugged” in some way
Then on again, to the next thing:
never having finished
not even to think
“Anything grand coming of Harold?”
But that’s not it
(Harold, or)
Is it?
C’omon Sarah!
I’ve got other things I need ‘be doing.
Don’t have all this time
to “this-just-in”, how you say?:
They call it/ he was,
on arrival, after all.
D.
O.
A.
so, they say:
Dead On Arrival.
After all he’d been
Told me
He’d “Been Through”.
Goddamn distinguishing
between “default”, and that which is “supposed to be”.
Either, in theory is excpted to work, but of the tree
and then I preview it in my mind–
this whole “Landscape” orientation of images–
like a storyboard– and different characters interact, etc .
I’m going to charge you a “3”, if N___ doesn’t get it together soon–
you’re getting a “C”.
Now I understand
it’s all relative to the project!
A much greater endeavor than this.
[damn having-to-back-track–
again–
lost track…
where was I ?
FUCK!]
It feels good though–
i mean– the only good thing about it,
is that it feels good– like sleeping.
It’s refreshing. and when it’s finally over,
and i’ve gained, and lost so many thoughts on stuff,
non-stuff- virtual nothingness, i —
though longing-for, and therefore, oft’imes
(panzy’s not coming!) “eh… don’t wory abotu him.
we’ll get to him later. “.
Damnit damn opening the eyes. it’s so much easier with them closesed.
opening the eyes is sure to bring on confusion,
and the throbbin, dull, but ominous pain of forcing itself in,
gaining control, as I proportionally, lose my own.
and that is so very disheartening- so frustrating– so maddening.
should I continue?
what point?
is there pleasure in it? is there purpose; a practical function? that sucks.
once in a while,
a really great idea comes to mind– but it’s always lost.
and what you, Head ?
through past script queries– accessibility…
oh– shit, and then, there’s the damn “Upstairs”
(eyes open now) noise [i.e. Upstairs-Noise]
for all automatic complete-letion of that-houghts / variables —
sometimes good– more often bad– and would me l–
temploate– very important– the proper template,
so much can be affect… ban the un-trustworthy, and make it into a baloon,
now it up, and mail it to the Sun.
no .
all too much time-consuming–
too much for time
(As intravenous, it doesn’t belong, yet
here I interject:
I will NEVER believe her.
Never.
“Never trust a junkie”, and she:
just the same!
Once was, an Adriatic dream.
Spawned “The Dark One”
Player, she played-out-tunes:
kept her rat, I, under thumb
like thesis, what a ruse:
blinded what was better, Son.)
i’ll have to try it somewhere-else.
Valkyries: I strive.
Look!
She’s dying.
She needs some sleep!
Breathing
She’s not right.
Not right: needing sleep.
Oh yeah, taking One?
dssssss
interesting: I spoke to my wallet
and, bah!…
Too far gone.
Save [it], or lose it.
Good-bye; wish you well
try: done.
Tried: “Do, or do not!”
We heard them say
“One-come-a-day”
To bid thee:
Farewell.
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§ MODIFIED_by_JS_2013-02-24_200051 §
[ not the best, clearly. But, modified, for found en memoriam Due, and past-due. ]
