Non-writing writer
Aching all over with silence
Sub-skin infestations
All those stories you failed on
All those images you knew were important, but you just couldn´t be bothered
Like the story of the blind man and his dog who overhears a mother and a daughter talking, asks them about the shattered glass on the ground, to which he picks up his dog and carries it, unseeingly and stumbling, across the street. The cars. the dog. the man. The image of his face.
the burn of some images strong enough to stick.
(Writer. non-complying)
Like the note you passed this morning on the way to work. A throw-away grocery list. It could have been a portway to somewhere wildly else, like a closet or a sleek ring of demonic gold (being litterararily cute perhaps, that: possesion lives in things that shine)
I can´t be bothered to imagine
It takes no effort to imagine milk, the good brand coffe, smokes and chocolate.
I won´t give energy away
Or smokes, the cheap brand coffe and a porn-rag
I don´t want to know what everyone might have bought at the supermarket.
(I am) non-writing writer non-complient
the one who goes to bed hoping to dream of nothing at all