Idealized Ambition

Idealizing ambition. Sharpened teeth and tongue. A coat of callous. Gnarled, scarred and toned confidence: it has stone eyes. Vulgar honesty carved in stolen leather. Burnt skin makes for charred flakes masking honey and dough. Friendship is hellos and business propositions. Nights are open-eyed planning: idealized ambition.

Right Foot. Left foot.

Exhaustion: pepermint eyes, cinnamon-heart chest and lower back. A small creature sits below the neck and above the spine. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. But the March has stopped. Tasks are resolved. The butter is perfectly soft. Alert. Energized. How? No time. Action did not tire, thought of action did. The act was energizing. The thought burned the skin just below where it shows, leaving strange looks from ‘something not quite right’. Or stark contrast leaves lies. Will tomorrow bring full breaths, or a hangover from stress? Either way. Right foot. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot.

Ship of the Horizon – Part 1

Something close. It tickles the fingertips. It brings blood to the surface. Heat. Sharp prickles. But, man is blind to anything they do not yet know: the ship cannot yet be seen on the horizon.

Routine – Just Wait

Lost words in lost time. Unsufficient access to outlet: power out; power in.
Leave me to move without thought in rhythm to monotony. Soon I will find words in found time: plugged in.

Order Over Creativity’s Battleground

Thought of action, not wisdom or creativity. Mind over movement. Movement through the mind. Practicality and purpose. Delegation of task: fingers, thumbs. Neatness not mess. Rectify order in creativity’s used battleground.

Visual Representation

Visual representation.
There are inaccuracies.

To forget value of visage.
To forget you have a face.

To adjust because of realization
Of the existence of a self
Other than thought and sight.

To adjust because
People must be informed
Of identity through material.
Not because material has more value
But because otherwise,
They’ll never know.

Hypnosis: It Hits Both Ways

Hypnosis, of a kind. One that hits both ways: when you deny, and when you confirm. In each sway it repeats, “fucking do it, fucking do it”. There’s no place for a please. Procrastination grows you a full head of hair. Each strand juts out in wiry form. They each point their own ways. They’ve gathered strong, readied for a rebellion. Maybe they’ll fall out. The stress is strong enough. The outline is laid as a battle plan filling all your tables. There’s no room for another readying. It waves back and forth, flicking on either side: a good slap to the face. “Fucking do it, fucking do it”. You deny procrastination. You confirm it. Either way it still swings and strikes on either side.

Just fucking do it.

Shucking Spirit

Shucking out treasures. A small blade. Precision with a twist and pop. Collector of spirits. Shucking out a small light, maybe aquamarine, periwinkle or rose-quartz.
Before harvest, he primes with sage eyes and flattery. A spark. A chime. The smell of wildflowers. A tickling zephyr. He digs. Down. Under. Twist. Pop. Splat. Speckle. Hum like a tibetan ringing bowl. Reverberate like water droplets onto a cave floor. Glow like dancing reflections of water. A moment. Eyes are damp and feel filled with sawdust. A pinch. The collector smiles. The man cries. He is cheated. The collector grabs his hand. Clammy palm. Frigid fingers. The man cringes. Pried open grip. Placed. A coolness to the palm. The man is in his chair. Screen glow. Electronic buzz. Shaking grasp. Open fingers. There it sits, a stone in his palm. It glows gently and gently sings a song he knows but has never heard.

Tart | A State of Mind

Black currents. Saskatoon berries. Stinging tongue. Sore lips. Small pops. A blueberry seems bland. Clock at 11:11. There is no wish: the subconscious isn’t speaking. Jet lag: never flown. Sit. Stand. Sit. Stand. Pace. Pace. Is hair always so frizzy? Does it always grab that much neck? Hands on lap. Hands at side. It smells like candy. It smells like stale garbage. Another: stinging togue; sore lips; small pops. Black current. Saskatoon berries.

Hand Holding

She holds her own hand. She holds it too tight. White and red stripes. Tingles. She won’t let it go. If she holds on tight enough, she’ll forget she is the one holding it. If she holds long enough, it will feel familar. She sways it back and forth. Awkward elbows. Giggles. Her’s?  Their’s? If she holds it well enough, someone else will want to try.