What do I intend when I write love to you? To splendor what words am I drawling too? Is the sea big enough for both of us? Your heart is too big, it will displace a great deal of marine life. Deposited deep in Brazilian caves I imagine there lives an eel big enough to swallow all of South America. It wears spectacles like Elvis Costello and dances Dutch on karaoke nights[1]. When we are driving and I feel a sudden throbbing in my head, it is an overwrought attempt at finding words for you to swoon to. All of my friends are eels big enough to swallow me. None of them write poetry but if they did I would love them for it because I love them for everything, anyway. I have so much love to give. I will package it in tin cans like sardines in vinegar and fill a bomb shelter with them. It is nice, this feeling of explosion. I am slipping in and between language, undulating. My fuzzy stomach. Your fuzzy stomach. I am a simple man. I just want to live until I die. I think that will suffice.

[1] That was the first time I’ve ever spelled ‘karaoke’ right.


What then, the arm of an away, ever to amaze the sculpting hands of a distance negotiated by and through, through and by the writing of mountains to love you to. Passing by through a channel runs underneath the pond somewhere deep in the heart of my rot, of blood in the stone. Hair fuzzy on the eyes I sing you to over cloud pardons the amorous hurt I weighed you with, where found love found near the summer of forest blooming towards, I had been. My suitcase was full of apple, I had nothing to tell anyone, my voice was a seed worth blossoming to. A sun sighed, the world in a way was something of you inside me, anyway.


Faire. ‘Do.’ ‘To do’. ‘To do, too’. The passage of a gesture, ‘to do.’ To petrify a feeling and wear it as a pendant around your neck. My muscles stretch, disquieting. I hear mice running around my thoughts, squeaking. The door is a gesture. A threshold. It partitions space. Life is passing through, one silence to another. Faire. I open the door to an angular room, silence. The walls are bleached in sunlight. The heater is on and is hissing, in my nightmares the radiator morphs into a snake larger than a mountain and it wraps itself around me, gently, beckoning the bile of my language in order to pardon myself from its unbounded embrace. I have no words for you, snake. Can you see in my face your face? We pass through one another. Ghostly. Faire. In another room I find myself reading the blue paint of a wall. The wall sticks to the paint and the brush strokes are consonants my tongue cannot formulate. ‘Ehe.’ ‘Uae.’ Everything foreign feels that way due to the absence of familiarity. It stands outside of me and holds a looking glass to my face, my face. Outside the patio is reposing. The sun is the indent I leave on my pillow. The indent on my pillow is proof that I have a body, that I have volume. We are composed of stardust, I have learned. There is no need to poetically embellish the fact that we are composed of stardust, the inherent beauty of that fact speaks for itself. I am the universe aware of itself. I am the universe acting upon itself. There are stars in me. I am a constellation. I put order to my body by arranging, topographically, spatially, my physical constitution. I suck in my stomach to allow other stardust to exist closer to me. When I walk into a room I bow my head. The room is to be held sacred, demanding reverence. The room which organizes the disposition of my daily activity. The Room. The room which is blooming. Dust in its many mouths. Light seemingly emanating from its teeth, digesting me blindly. The room which is space partitioned, as if space is separate from itself. I leave open all the doors. Space breathes through the walls. Space smiles inside me. It displaces the disquieting nature of my human constitution. Space is the most generous allowance. Space through which I travel everywhere, me and my voluminous body. Space which nurtures the expansion of my voluminous body. I am in between two places, between infinite points. I can feel the pressure from all sides, my body is the destination of that pressure. It pushes back, my body, it displaces. It rebels. It acquiesces. It is a throbbing. I am exactly what I am. I am. Such an exactitude forever remains outside of me. I am exactly what I am both inside and outside of myself. What I am is exactly what I have been allowed by the spatial tendencies of the ordering of things. What I am is the culmination of an explosion of gaseous stars, which, in their deconstellation, reached their new temporary constellation: my voluminous body. I want life like a cup of tea. I want life like flowers in the hands of manatees.


A gale swells,
contextualizing everything it
it touches

A gesture of a

Outside of love there is only more love.

Happy as this, uh-huh.
wow. great stuff. can only wish to have the patience and coherence to write something like this. also, i feel like i really get the various perspectives on love and existence that you bring up here. you use very concise and creative descriptions for these abstract things.

i can't give any constructive criticism on this really. and either way, there's a point some people get to where it doesn't really help anyway. once you fine tune, everything seems to be more about style development. i might be just dumb about that though. really, i guess my criticism is don't change a damn thing.

sorry drunk etc. etc.

[as a side note, i still have a hard time spelling karaoke]

edit: so i was looking at your blog. this was a freewrite exercise?
Last edited by Dregen at Jan 18, 2015,
thank you for your kind words.

i suppose i put little thought into the formulation of a 'style', as style is completely dependent on content. it is through the content that a style can be said to exist (i think). so, in regards to what you said, forget style, let the content forge its own.

and yes, all the pieces except the last one were just freewrite/'automated' writing exercises.

thanks again!