No further leapt, no further crossed. But looked upon steadily
At the sea. The breathe with which always aroused her to her writing.
Breathed beneath her intentional palms, and loving knees.
She crossed my mind. A thousand times a night. Yet could never break through to my heart
The sweet sadness of experimental youth, turned to burning engines of gasoline lines
I stood up tall. I ceased to be, or to know whatever I saw. I stopped trying to qualify
For my life. For I was originally creator of it all. The lies, the truths the bondage,
all erased with sex and time. They exist in pure carnage. I exist above dead spines.
To exist to dominate, to exist to seduce, was mere foreplay in dwindling times.
Literature explorations, nipple tickle, a sadness brewed inside my coffee, for the inattentive
cases of life. No way which I bend. No way which I stood still. Nothing helped faster, then to say hello to myself inside. She told me to feed the chatter, honey soup, and listen to your writing, for it’s talent. We are done with the adult disappointments of a premature youth. When something ends, exist wisely. Without closing up the wound with drugs and spirituality. Close them up, in action and doing. For that is what all was done and written for. To better action. Is what spirit means. The right spirit behind the action. Is the right action. The right attitude, the right understanding a the right improvement. Just be. Right is not, right and wrong. Right is your being. TO be right in your being. Right in the centre of you. Write. Right?
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