It is here that I sink beneath the horizon. It is here that, like the sun and moon, I dwell below the sea. Lovely pea green across the ocean blue, the journey of the eldest practitioners that we still elaborate, the song in the heart along the lilting waves. Lovers with their paths now parted, the dirt at the notional fork. Ritual a machine language, molecular engines to catch the eyes of existence. A sorting of the so and sos towards this lush ever presence, a few licks of the nursery rhyme, a hammering of the pulse. That sense of sinking, this unpleasant effervescence, the weight of limb and the press of breath. A brief halo of bubbles escape as you sink, flesh among the flood of myths.
The symbols settle like sediment, sealing off paths and rivers, muddying up the tongue. These skills that pile up as the culture condenses, these certainties set in our own stone. As magic as money, as tragic as any football plucked before the kick, the joke we take at face. Animals that hunger for the words to go so, each impulse devoured and spent as breath and ghost, the synapses rippling with memory and anticipation. We sort through our tastes and shapes and agree at least to be aggrieved, senses rising from the reading of a sentence, the skip rope spell that raises up a reel. The world that we’re done with never quite through.
This is grief that goes with missing kisses. This is the spinning kicking gravel, stuck bad in some way off track. It is done, but never over. It is gone, but it shows up each day. Maybe sad, maybe pretty, maybe just a formality of the further failure. Broken down to thoughts and habits, to the persistence of this system of words and ways. The lost and the wrong compound until they are a second skin, the first whiff of you anyone gets at a glance goes the story. The story that you learn while you’re taught your place. A whole world where you have no purchase, all these impacts that made a voice out of these lost threads. A style made from my stranded curses and selfish prayers.