the placid ebb of
heart within these bone-lath walls
i’ve not felt it chime
or strike the hour or
even whisper about time or
how time crumble plaster from
the brittle of life, crack lines
appearing on the thin of skin
to tell stories of sadness & joy
i feel the placid ebb, the slow lapping of
life, it loves to suck on marrow
it loves to pull on the hairs, greying them
slow & methodically, pluck, pluck
them, one by one

i’ve heard myself quietly echo my mother & crumple to
the floor & laugh like a jackel, all at once, at myself
at irony, at frustration,
at sensibility, at anger,
at ‘keeping it light’
at watching age & placidity
being inseparable frienemies
parasidically feeding off the
nothingness of each other,
at circles & squares,
at how everything is endless & sharp all at once,
i’ve warmed like brandy
swirling in the palm & let myself
slide, mouth to throat to gut
to feel consumed & to feel i am somehow healing some ache i can’t quite touch or see or know, but i can feel it, there, within the other, from the inside, as of it were mine, as if it were mine.

placidity, smooth & red & cool, keeps washing over the bed of
my soul, in long waves of suppressed…everything
& the slight ripple, a trill, floats almost impercievably along
all of me, but it’s faint & tired
& spacing out

how calm can i keep my storm ravaged ship


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