Focal Length:3.85mm
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Home was someplace I never been,
That Jones fixed my gaze like since I never seen,
Life ain’t alive if you don’t show up,
Best cut the loss, upchuck your spirit,
Try to become new again.
I fuck with redemption
attend to my declension
I’m positively flush and
Game like badminton
Bok Bok
No pretension
The present’s my invention
So fuck an intervention.
Wit cut and dried like venison,
Each dawn got me swallowing
Handfuls of medicine,
No fetishes,
Just a baby born and God danced it was sworn,
My becoming more than being,
What I’m feeling, deeply
Let the bergamot hit that hot
water and steep
Real nice
Add milk and white spice
Call me High Tea
Ain’t happening twice
Sometimes I imagine what I could be,
All these roads laid out before me,
The years consumed with no relenting,
The days rambling glacially,
She says she still miss me,
Yet still never meant to be,
If I were a bird I’d fly far away,
Were I a giraffe I’d stay in the clouds
Unaware of the coulds and shoulds,
Always gravity but I’d be good–
Instead I fight these doubts, Forget my blessings, Fix on what I’m without, So fucked I could shout from the rooftops
Feel my spirit as it drops to my hollow gut
Sure enough,
There’s always a cage, There’s too much weight
To carry through a half-imagined life
so much carrion
stereophonic decay in surround sound
that plagues bubonic
my fatigue is chronic
fighting yawns
allergic, can’t sit w prawns
Am I King or a pawn or a Knight
Cloaked in darkness
Cliffhanger no harness
I just might fall like Icarus
or Lucifer into Chaos
When Christ drowned the earth in tears and grapevines burst from the clay
cinque quattro tre due fino alla fine when you had gone and i was alone the rooms felt bigger, filled with more emptiness, i could only start to squirming and struggling in a fishbowl, on the edge of drowning, still not dead




you can’t surf the Internet
in the psych ward,
in gowns among the coconuts.
the wires are not all tapped.
come back to us,
you don’t belong to them.


i dont have any concrete idea how many times a day i wash my hands now, medicated as am (now) not to wash them, but maybe i just (since) continued washing them all the time and the SSRI’s just helped me stop noticing.

“No one knows how a dolphin makes both whistles and echolocation clicks simultaneously.”
~michael ondaatje’s “coming through slaughter”

There will be time, there will be time
To prepare a face to meet the faces that you meet;
There will be time to murder and create,
And time for all the works and days of hands
That lift and drop a question on your plate;
Time for you and time for me,
And time yet for a hundred indecisions,
And for a hundred visions and revisions,
Before the taking of a toast and tea.

“The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock” T.S. Eliot (1920)

And my whole soul revolves, the cup runs over,
The world and life’s too big to pass for a dream…

“Fra Lippo Lippi” by Robert Browning


I’m Nobody! Who are you?
by Emily Dickinson

I’m Nobody! Who are you?
Are you – Nobody – too?
Then there’s a pair of us!
Don’t tell! they’d advertise – you know!

How dreary – to be – Somebody!
How public – like a Frog –
To tell one’s name – the livelong June –
To an admiring Bog!


“All people dream, but not equally.
Those who dream by night in the dusty recesses of their mind, wake in the
morning to find that it was vanity. But the dreamers of the day are dangerous
people, For they dream their dreams with open eyes, And make them come
― D.H. Lawrence

“Go to the Limits of Your Longing”
by Rainer Maria Rilke

God speaks to each of us as he makes us,
then walks with us silently out of the night.

These are the words we dimly hear:

You, sent out beyond your recall,
go to the limits of your longing.
Embody me.

Flare up like a flame
and make big shadows I can move in.

Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror.
Just keep going. No feeling is final.
Don’t let yourself lose me.

Nearby is the country they call life.
You will know it by its seriousness.

Give me your hand.


“What is REAL?” asked the Velveteen Rabbit one day… “Does it mean having things that buzz inside you and a stick-out handle?”

“Real isn’t how you are made,” said the Skin Horse. “It’s a thing that happens to you. When [someone] loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with, but REALLY loves you, then you become Real.”

“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.

“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful. “When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

“Does it happen all at once, like being wound up,” he asked, “or bit by bit?”

“It doesn’t happen all at once,” said the Skin Horse. “You become. It takes a long time. That’s why it doesn’t often happen to people who break easily, or have sharp edges, or who have to be carefully kept.

“Generally, by the time you are Real, most of your hair has been loved off, and your eyes drop out and you get loose in the joints and very shabby. But these things don’t matter at all, because once you are Real you can’t be ugly, except to people who don’t understand… once you are Real you can’t become unreal again. It lasts for always.”
Margery Williams, The Velveteen Rabbit or How Toys Become Real


stay focused

Nessun maggior dolore che ricordarsi del tempo felice nella miseria…

So, let’s refuse effusive language, in this blahg of sorts.



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