Stillness

A stationary pilgrim co-presumptuous to the point of intimacy:
Sensory agnosticism is his best mechanism, coping with unwanted visitors,
at times there is no harbour and when there is harbour there is also a slithering residue and marching legionary sandals in time, hear them? This is what scabs are made of, ruderal growths and dust blood emesis, he is a field and there is growth. Growth not meaning false stoicism or healing but an admission and embracing of decay, anything but denial. Healing a trite concept perhaps not admitting the cyclicality of it all. Here he is.

A body run amok. Obsessive drawing of the lines; which one is his which ones are made from distraction. A need to find true colour true definition; are the weeds so bad?

Well, they aren’t mine! They aren’t bred from my heart or from my blood or from my lung. My body has been used as a joy ride a slam of procreation come orgy running interweaving my blood cells, between ear lobes boomeranging sound in waves boxing my brain.

Go on; try and cure me through fixing my neurotransmitions by meat eating purine boosts. Don’t you get it? My neurotransmition is overloaded as it is. And the mitohormesis theory has crossed the line. Noxious weeds are what they are to me.
It’s all very well to have sowed this field of mine but these are imposters these memes are a coercion from the grim reaper that can’t wait its time. Look! Look at this field if you must- These squabbly roots are choking my nativism scene. This landscape that is my front and sides and back no longer breaths but breeds. Watch me as I disintegrate. Party over my damaged roots. Shake head sadly and whisper lisp; overfertilization. This is not the fecundation that they talked about in sex harmony and love class.