i’d like a breakdown

of the quarterly returns and the projected apple turnover from march through to wednesday, including all point to point verification nodules associated with the bi-monthly management meetings held in the old offices, not the old old offices, for those i need a letter writing, under an assumed name, about a little boy who works in a hotel and a lostlost woman, don’t give too much away of course, you’ll find your feet’ll hurt and the ticks’ll find a new noise so you’ll not hear them coming, and the tocks’ll just wander aimlessly in the dirt; no-one wants them if they’ve lost their only definition, and they’ve not the gumption to hone themselves another; they were attached to what they were, like a parasite feeding on a host already coughing up blood they forgot they weren’t healers; perhaps they could become healers, or at least perceived as such; if the coughing stopped, if the blood ceased to spurt, and the result of both were life, maybe they’d be mistaken for the cure, maybe the ticks’d put in a good word – they’d partnered well over the years – but the result of both was death; the tocks were blamed and the ticks’d fucked off to the bolivian republic of venezuela, discovering a particular love for nearby curaçao, its inherent healing properties, and the welcome shown by, as of the first of january 2009, its 141,766 strong population; the tocks need a breakdown not of quarterly returns; nor of the kind where the need to call one’s spouse at work arises, the i couldn’t stay in bed any longer though now i cannot raise me from the floor please listen to me cry about things i don’t understand so cannot explain and indelibly print an image on your psyche that will make you feel sick whenever its remembrance assails you, i feel sick, i must write this letter to the lostlost woman, i must avoid a breakdown, i shall not ask, nor say please, no-one should have these images

turn the dark on

the boss is coming and i need this out before his flabby jowls assault me; he’s tall, he’s overweight, his excess coagulates at random points about his person; he treads boards, amateur ones, musical ones, they sing with pleasure as one does when the whip spurs; when you think all your breath has gone there’s always a little extra for a song of praise or the safety word, and then there’s next time; i can see the future and it’s too bright, it hurts my eyes and i don’t like it, no not one little bit, but i can’t really leave on my own and those i’m with i couldn’t take with me; i ache with weariness in the parts of my body i no longer use, i’d like to exercise them, exorcise them, the power of joy compels you, leave me alone, why do you think that your stupid answers would be preferable to a state of not knowing yet; i’d rather not know at all than be left with your insipid dregs on which to feed; to only know that you’re wrong would suffice; you are ontologically unsound, you have neither essence nor existence and the order with regards to you is moot, sivuseikka, i tire of even thinking about you and i hate myself as thought is the only way by which you can exist yet i continue to do it; i could stop writing for starters, but then all i’m left with is thought; i have no safe place, only safe state; i’ve nowhere to go and everywhere to be, diluted, lost with no singularity, nothing to which a sense can be fixed; to begin with no light…….please