I feel hollow to the bone, as if the marrow had evaporated, my liver has failed to get rid of the toxins that come from my mind, its now piss that flows through my veins and it has intoxicated every part of me.
I was sitting on the floor last night with my legs crossed and my arms folded, I was cradling myself in insanity and, the movement was generating a rhythm from static, the absolute silence that I wanted to get rid of. All I can do sometimes is feel with no thought. I want to get it out, pace and punch, I press against the lines on my forehead as if to get rid of them.
The lines on my forehead is an unmodified part of myself that i happen to adore. They look like fat rolls, waves of thought, a pattern in the desert sand.


Rainy Day

Umbrellas with bodies walk cautiously down on wet tar. Under a hood, somber hazel eyes and quivering lips, let out a steamy exhale, arms are crossed, wrapped around herself. A man sips his coffee from a paper cup, the plastic lid reads ‘caution hot stream’ and a winking face that tells him to ‘smile’.
It seems that ‘caution’ and ‘smile’ match silent interaction, the meeting of eyes from under a hood looking up for a second at the pacing body’s iris and quivering lips, interaction of the eyes, though silent has a lot to say, eyes speak of more than the weather.
Boots make a belly-flop-like splash as they hit shallow puddles that form a pattern from an aerial view, my body is one of the quivering lipped and wrapped in self’s arms, my head is in the overcast.Image

a Scene

A few chairs surround the line of small tables, forming an elongated surface for ashtrays and coffee cups -some contain a warm wake up, some a sip of cold bottom of wake, brown streaks of droplets on porcelain.
Today is a bit cold day so coffee cools down quickly, that doesn’t matter as it is gulped down.
To my right there are two chairs against the wall and a few surrounding a pool table, a woman is sweeping solids and stripes down a hole.
The people who have joined me are sharing a sharing sweet silence, we are all captured by our own activities, a few forms of art, I am working on this blog post, another is drawing, the other is taking alone time, which is indeed an art.

Dirty Boots

These boots have gathered dust, battered by experience. Their soles have been worn by sidewalks, soil and tar to and fro point A. This leaves me to question where point A is exactly, is; is it where the boots were first put on or where they were put on before the next stroll

They were worn when I was in love, next to me when I made love, perhaps point A is where I fell in love, perhaps its where my heart was broken.
Breaking a heart is the rape of sorts, an unconcentual
These boots are torn, battered but not broken, they will always walk with me till they are of no use, this is when they will be kept – sentimental, but worth very little.