SITTING THERE

SITTING THERE

If there is one thing that is not certain, without or within a verbal chance, it is “there-and not” and “there again”. To say caution is grassed “all over again” would merely say, would it not, that it shan’t be grassed anew – having been “all over” not to mention all over “again”? How do we end things so overtly, in a time frame speaking of having once before? This is not pernicious or cowardly straight laundered, it is merely asked and therefore persists. Presits…like my alkaline devoid in wet shape of pungent sold and chorusine withered like towards terminal dress-sense – a snug fit of dissolved, bought of fine filaments late bowed. I am not candlelight in this difference of brand-spanking new, and seeing it all through re-threads, watching the marquis remote control…..                                                              

                                                                                    and to be told

while circus waits unmould,

undignified and seesaw. 

There is compass in my paintbrush and I hate the living dead, I am not without a saluting see to sigh my aching neck, and dread it is…..To worship, your hair and eyes so long unbled, and nightscape in this highlight inbetween, of itself, and it, and yes. There is an imposter in the silence of the glass, there is looking and unyet reachable, reflection must to task…..and conjure in this regret sack, of tale removed at birth, an ensconcing lack of tenuous brings – a lazy, corded slap, with knife and I ocular no more, only love is bound to safety, I am that I adore, and sibilant in tastiness, too frightened to know again, a slept without a token, not even thought to web, a rise-ling as my changeling: come saturate me to pain, the soft triangle life-like and knitting needles again…..I am all that’s hidden. I know all until I’m fed, the obvious joust of trigonometry bend poking fun at me again…an audience too backwards…a striking much too ten, as there it isn’t all for you – brought to you time and a bend, I am without that loss for isn’t any, a nothing without it’s mend, a tapering drink at a discordant blink and grass grows around with when. I know if I answer there will be no more question and how will what why to cease end? Because ending is nothing and beginning not worthy and trapezoid teething is rent. Unlike an unglockenspiel in my tie, this ceremony and contagious, glint to burn; ice like tight and memory defend. You are but a u-turn on my part, dear friend and lest not that likeliness upstart in out’s

worthiness: I am but a…

                                       talking again.

All over again.

                                        

 Bent over streets send

                                                     all over…..again.

nicolee ferris

17.04.01