Bones To Bury

far back in the past a fallback to my ancestors.

my ancestor of 5 minutes ago, stumbling blindly out the door and bequeaving me whatever was laying behind him.

my proto-caveman of 3 years ago, banging days together optimistically.  dies over the fire he started playing with fucking matches.

I’ll go no further back.  refuse the poor mongrels and write postcards to the new me.  god forbid; more children tumbling from now into unending playful possibilities.
they’re mocking me with good-natured cheekiness, irreverence for this and that Once apon a Time.

sometimes it’s probably healthiest to sit back and remember the day you first met your
obligations.

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It takes some willpower to swerve before we collide but we do it.  blind fear for the unknown.  it’s an uncomfortable mess afterwards and we pick ourselves up and just slink away with as much grace as we can muster.

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trajectories faltering.  vapour trails diverging around points on the ground.

smuggle in some solitude; paperback crescendos in the darkness.

educated prime producer, take hold of me and please don’t squeeze
lips chapped from slow dancing and biting.
the foresntics of the evening are not back from the lab yet, but shall we just assume?

waltzing pillow-huggers, pillow-shaggers all, everyone.
look me in the eye and tell me any bay in a storm.  any sheltering, doona-burrow in the thrashing toothing gale outside.

i’m made for it after all.  more attention and affection, more calculation and organism going on outside my skin than in.  Thinks: the digestive system is actually open to the world.  that would explain the eating, digesting, and occational excretion of people by people.  but at least we all have the possibility to nurish and CONSTITUTE our fellows.

EXTREMELY aware of the size of this giant mastication.  more stomach than anything else.  flying in the face of antacids.

string together a could of words; “let’s get married”.  why can’t we all adventure together?  what the heck is this one doing?  some kind of pirate policeman?  some kind of philosopher-king pizza deliveryman.
I’ll be your pizza highwayman.

let’s read that over again; “back to myself”.
room to find the space I used to occupy.  Space is everything, so there’s got to be room to see where all of my parts are and maybe room to prance and dance around a bit and shake my tail.
climb out of this defensive bomb SHELTER that was too small, dark, damp.
and just kick it with the radio-active zombie mutants…  sounds fun.  avoid shotgun blasts.