Sunday, 3 March 2013

This is the kind of nonsense a hungover Jane will type if you let her near a keyboard.

Isn't it funny that people put their hands together when they pray? What is that, this feeling of needing to push against something, hand on hand, pressure, because otherwise what if you're just a human person sitting there in the abyss with your eyes closed, waiting for the bang? I am trying it now and I tell you it feels good, this, the thing, hand on hand, pressure. I am trying it now and it feels fine.

Today we read of drug trips on Erowid and my brain filled in all the gaps between a tab on the tongue and sugar spacedust gypsy flies. Remember that time the heaven were revolving so fast we were finally just people in space clinging onto the big spinny ball? Remember that time we lay on the grass and maybe it was wet but it didn't matter because cubes of water space crystal dust mine gold mine, cubes of this is real life, cubes of me.

I like the way you feel uncertain about things because certainty is a sharp stick and people use it to hit on heads. I like the way you draw and I wouldn't mind to crawl inside if you opened the tiny glass door, I wouldn't mind the view. This body beneath me is readjusting all the time and I find it hard, sometimes, to remember what to do with it. I guess the best is to just keep sitting. Finally if you do that something might work out.

I let the boy be a french man in the afternoon and I am a needy kitten and gas explosions make the sky twenty different colours hello hooray bang. Tingles in my shoulder blades and old muscles who forgot the way to get in touch, peppermint tea, peppered with scattershot, glittered with ice cream, hand me that bagel, hey ho let's go.

Nothing says kiss me quick like a long date on a short afternoon when all the sandcastles are holding fort against twenty types of tide. Pretty coloured flags ratattatting are every thing I'd like to look upon hand in hand. Take me to the slot machines and we can watch the colours of the machines light up like all the bells and cherry say ding ding ding! I like to hold your hand and say DING, I'd like to be your clapper and find the outside of your bell. I would sit all day in the church tower like I was the hunchback trying to express a small cube of love in the only way I know how.

That way is the loud ring because anything softer and I'd be worried you couldn't hear it, anything more quiet and I'd be scared you weren't there. Maybe you are there and maybe not, but either way I will fill this tiny village with my own loud clangs just on the off chance, just for the maybe that could be. Who wouldn't like to spend a winter vacation in French ooh la la land, munching on thick cheese and bread crusts, glugging at the wine? Of course, of course you say that Paris is not for the snow, winter is kittens, give me springtime or let all the peasants burn.

Strange to see the images that come to the top in this long weird hungover panning, yes, I may not have mentioned but my brain is a dabbled door filled with Christmas tree coral, spurting out and in with the patterns of the sea. It's much more colourful down here than you could ever imagine, all your talk of other oceans, all your preoccupations with blue. If I was an oxygen tank, I wouldn't mind being yoked to your mouth and feeling the bubbles that in out in out in all the way to your lungs.

I don't believe that tar is black but I'll give a poke around in here and keep my fingers crossed for the Chilean miners Your heart is a deep hard hole and I wouldn't like to spend too long tapping for the fear that maybe things would start to cave. Let's cave. Let's sit with Plato for a while and let these shadows pass across our other walls and let's be happy with the flickers from this strange source of light because that's enough, or it should be, why are you always begging for the truth? I have seen the truth and wandering that world out there is nothing compared to the delicious warmth of this cavey fire, so gather close, let's talk about the rocks...

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