sheepskin

i want to bundle myself in enjoyment yet nothing happens everything evaporates quickly as the turpentine. sting sting, nothing to be said. as if there are words that could replace us. soon soon we lodge ourselves in words that are inaudible, only readable, a cipher that needs to be cracked and detached and assembled so we could make sense of where do we go from here. after all, where do we depart to? we sink into the boards, into the pages, non existent, only the essence remains. here, come, tither, where shall we go tomorrow?

i want to bask myself with ideas. i do not want to be bored, to be insane and pick myself up all over again. this is tiring. on waking up she sees the solitary sheep perched on the mountains, is that the Rat? no. we are in appin, campletown, penrith, in some kanji ghost town. there is nothing there, only stretches of red rock and the udder of chinesemen smacked between the trees. i asked thoreau whether he would like this. “no not without a lake. i need my walden pond, and my bean gourd”.

apparitions of naoko appeared before me today. i imagine her strutting in bedrocks, with her frock and gullible scarf. she wants to be consumed by the earth. she wants to melt in the sea, this massive unbearably pregnant ball of heat is killing me. let us bathe in the pond, be ophelia, not cordelia. no pond? a puddle would do.

but there is no water. i want to be quenched. yet none is near. nor do they hear. here i lie, and slowly die.