Like Clay

I am bothered by the shapes on the outside because they are as close as I can get (as I have gotten) to the shapes on the inside. Compulsive, obsessive actions to reach what isn't. Cannot? Just isn't, at least.

I am answering the latest I am responding I am pushing away tongue teeth and hesitant, bit-up lips anxious, ground up teeth and saying in sharp clear angry tones : YES. YES IT IS. And you ask in such a way as to say it is, even; and you are holding this fact to everyone except--or maybe just--

This is the one thing that makes me angry. Unreasonably angry, where 'unreasonably' is not used as a degree word (take that, Eng 370), but, just to describe that I have no good reason behind this; I am not thinking through this; I am just curling a fist and writing a G-D-I on my tongue in the darkest of inks and any moment now--
BAM.

There..there are two ways this can go, and I have to start speaking crap again; this will be twice removed, because even once removed is too close.

Unlikely: There will be...numbers. And birds ringing in my ears. And then blue. A screen. There will be incisions. Incisors, maybe, too, will come out to play. It will be called play. It will be the one serious thing I do in my life, perhaps. But I think I will lose, if only because I think I will lose. But this..this is all very unlikely. I do not like warm tea as much as cold tea.

Moar Likely: I wish I wasn't listing these, because even that is too much, too squeezed, too defined, and ill defined, at that. This is the more likely of the two. The birds will ring on my desk and not in my ears--they will not be given the time to burn their way to my ears. Dark blue. I will win; I will continue my winning streak. And winning is a sort of losing that I will not here go into. If there are incisors, they are cut out and strung up, above the desk or around my neck. Some sort of reminder, or something.

I can tell by the way I am writing now: I am impressed; that is, I am altered; that is, I am all the more easily murdered. Except...except not. This is so hard to explain, and I am only one frame removed from it. But I do not have a good enough handle to remove it any further.

The tea is still too warm. Or bitter. Something.

You know that feeling where..where you know you had a dream, because there's this weight in your head, in your attention to other things, but you can't quite remember it yet, but you...you just know it'll sneak up on you and have been something terrible? Yeah. I think it's a sign. The sign is called "cut back on naps, betch."

My middle name is Soojin.

I don't care about mud unless it's over my desk or on my feet; the same with grass, with water, with blood, with anything. Over my head in pieces, or else over my body in smudges. Is this self centered? Probably. I have a self, and I have a center; that is, I have a point-toward-which-all-things-lean. I have a gravitation. I have a vortex. But not a point--which, punpunpun, is the point of this paragraph.


Did-did you just flinch?
Yes. I think you did.
One thing, one other thing, but then-twitchjerkalmostteeth- Brief. Momentary. The length of a breath, and then it is back up by being down. Such neat reversals; Freud would squeal. This owl is squealing, in the angle of its head. Or maybe screaming--owls scream.

The lead on his back--that is where it comes from; that is where it's gotten from.

Don't you get it yet, girl?
No. I don't. It just ain't goin' through right.
You done gone and read?
I done gone and read, lady. You listenin'? It just ain't goin' through right.
Maybe you read the wrong thing.
No--I read somethin', and somethin's always somethin'.
Maybe you haven't read enough, girl.
Maybe. Maybe.
Go on and keep reading, girl.
Maybe. Maybe. But I'm afraid, ladyma'am.
What you got to be afraid of? They's just words, girl. Ain't gonna bite.
You don't know, lady--you ain't seen them the way I have. Don't need teeth to bite.
Don't need eyes to be blind, babygirl.


This blog will neither end itself nor let me end it.
Deus ex youtube.