a 6 week haitus; that's all it takes...
after the 6 weeks -
the internet...
any access to it...
any "concern" for a "pressing matter":
dissolves...
you naturally hinge on
the whole mob-command for
the un-personed -
does it really matter?
well... after 6 weeks having digested
the reading of a Sienkiewicz,
Pasternak, Nietzsche and Knausgård -
over 2000+ pages...
what is required writing,
to what was "required" reading?
carbon footprints...
more like: let's not make
much of a fuss about an indentation
in this web... yes:
which implies i,
the addressee - in the plural guise...
in that royal pronoun "sensibility"
of... since there is no "i"
to follow, one must begin with...
one thinks... rather than i think...
heavy be the crown upon
the head of a game-envy
ransom-pork-chop
'op 'op -opper...
the whiskey is still here...
but... there's just so much more
to gratify a night spent sleeping
than forcing myself
into the sort of gymnastics of:
three magic beans thrown against
a brick wall...
i.e. no Beatles... no echo...
6 weeks without access and...
i'm most inclined to say:
whatever indentation in this fabric...
for the comment, the likes...
they're never going to be
the familiarity of a face associated
with a local butcher...
sure... but so the missing
claustro-gossip-manifesto-phobia...
6 weeks without internet access...
2 hours of autopilot t.v.,
mantra: easily digestable bollocks...
propaganda-lite...
i would willingly sacrifice
small-town drama
for this global-fuck-up and easy
access to the comments...
i can't remember the last time
i commented on anything...
some people have managed to
salvage something, of, the internet...
internet banking and
internet buying and selling mediums...
that shit is: rigid and corrent on
form... but... even now...
these are futile words...
i sometimes think that succumbing
to a heroin addiction would
be a better departure point...
with a junky's eczema palace of worn
skin of drying tissues for wallpaper...
than this placebo receptor
compound... for agitated presence
in some exponential
"area" that cannot even translate
itself into a lunatic armed
with a candle at noon...
shouting profanities about
god and, "god... in a town sq.,
at best... come, make the slightest
variation of an indentation...
then fuck off as quickly as possible...
leaving nothing for the comment section
leeches and vultures...
there's is nothing here,
absolutely nothing...
more can be witnessed in
10 seconds on a tube morning commute...
where eyes, exist,
where ears, exist,
where skin can stretch toward
coordinate nexus points
and ignite itself with irritation
from the peruse of a voyeur;
what the hell is here?
idiot scrabble and a lesson in
arithmetic borrowed from a chapter
in anatomy via
counting skeletal bones?
- as ever, from no one,
to no one, about everyone and...
a tired scrutiny -
a reflex impetus -
for which, there's no reflective
debth of, any,
subsequent analysis to come.