I cannot write prose today
Cannot form sentences of meaning
Draw murders, make people
Fall in love.

I cannot squeeze the heaviness away
Cannot shred and serve it in neat lines
Constructed – without adverbs –

I cannot tell you the story which I told you
When I often told you stories – as they were all lies
And it is difficult to remember them all today
I’d not lie.

(Do you ever feel like that dark banality that gets written between flashes of meaning? That talks of mountains, rivers, palaces, hedges, horses, windows and whatnot, that seems would go on forever. Do you ever? Do you remember once you told me something very profound so I would kiss you – or was it me? ‘This world will end in desperation of a frantic imitation where each day, hour, second wants to be some other day, hour, second not respectively and everything wants to be something it is not and cannot be.’ I kissed you then – or was it you?)

I cannot write prose today.
I do not have the words for it.


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