Agitation makes up its own mind. Some time pressured in a can, if you will. I found this by the road, or did I. Once, fallow, the harpoon sharpened itself. Stab. Stab. If you looked, you would see the traces left from last night's discharges. Remington. Or other, but still there are many things that can be done in moments like this. Or found. Do you know the mind's word for defence.

Buried again. Nervous shudders push them forward. Something must be done, or I fail. We fall. Did we. And then there was that time, but I forget. Useless erasures, useless disclosures. I am sure they will hate me but this is how some minds think. They do and so there. I have or have not.

Fallen. Not shaven. I gave you a part, and then I fell, or tripped. Self's useless cliché. Fractured on the pane, next to garlic bulbs, next to my words. You left something there and I saw it hovering. Nobody likes this, nobody likes this and they hate you.

They searched. Once again the limes have hardened into perfect foosballs, and it is all my fault. Pages are taken and then spread out and the agitated push the buttons, repeatedly. Stab, stab. Not Winchester, that is too nice for this.

I gave us the play and then handed in the script; or, rather, the play was conceived and given away. My hands weren't tied, but nooses form loosely. When the moment was created, it was everyone's. Like these, like these words, like these words that are thought and then not spoken. They hate you, they hate these words and they are right. Can't go away from self for more than the indeterminate.

I cannot give up, I will not let this be all that there is. You have moments. Touch yourself, in private. I longed to see the mirror but felt it constrained something outside the curve. Stand there. Many uses for dust, many uses for this time, many uses for what slips. When I fell, I fell harder than a son-of-a-bitch. Comfort, not speed. Build your body your own way, leave mine alone.

The seriousness of my inner voice is clouded by absence. I longed, I left, I buried. Covered in the balm, covered in. Secular cliché, instead of. I gave up on questions because they need to be forgotten before any more time passes. The first three things weren't important until they were, don't forget.

If agitation opens flask, then what opens you. I knew better than to throw myself at the reckless moment, but who does this. He said erasures are not. Stab. Push them down, swallow them, they burn and they do not let go and they do not hide and they do not want youwantyouwantyouyou.

It hurts. Point that at me again, abrasion. Settle up with that part before it smoothes out cracks, I want no more of this. Just a taste, just that much, just a moment; the uses for a Glock are number in double digits. Pass-codes are the failure of dreams and I have something, but it is wronged, wrongful, writhing.

A pillow full of wind, chalk. Scrapped on the bottom, slit. Foamed over, pummeled. A stomach, retching. When you sense your end times, it all flows like honey dew. Keats knew, he knew. I couldn't just change it, change it like they say they wanted it, because that is not right, not right, not theirs. How do I. Restore version one, always. Chop, chop. Erasures. The soul is vacant now, and I am wronged. Socrates took the Hemlock, too. Fallen, on the harpoon, consciousness forgives me nothing.

When all I have left is hate, but you knew that already. More often, by the door, the metal kisses a frame. Sunlight conceals more than it wants, but so do drawings. I am my only subject, and I stab, stab. Have a point, make it plain, or go away. I can't tell you my narrative until I've lived it. I erase my favorite parts, I smooth over the fractures, I leach, I braze, I falsify, I conform. Tingle. Willing, I hurt you, too. I let all of it haunt me.

Solid fruits declare no meaning. Purpose is for the utility of effect. I gave. Corner me and I'll bite, otherwise, I cower. Mildew, frothing over, stench, haunches of a beast, and otherness. Forgive me, once only, then stab.

bio picture

Michael Elliot
Negative Capability 2.0