Constant hunger eating through me, no food, no rest will cure this. We run after, not before and cross our own minds twice before clinging to the future.

I want kids, she says, over the verge of tears; not now, knot nowing. Speaking for thyself or the choir, you are? 

I want to stay but go, she says, staring at the abyss spiralling downwards, the pit ending with herself, a place where she has never reached and never will.

To jump!, she says, passionately hesitant.

All well, but we’ll plant you first, bathe and nurture you for your digging, your fruits swell up in the underground. You’ll become whole again when you’re eaten.

As it is: —- I’m turning into a hibernating organism. Autumn is my spring — I bloom and catch fire, rolling madly in haystacks and creating havoc until the rain takes over. Your spring is the time of crashes, stirs, shakes and rumbles. Everything is tingly around me and I stay still, try - desperately! - not to move. I am enough. There, sick of myself, snuggling in my wants, wishing to inhabit a cave full of dirt and tangles. Roots reaching their growth all over me, while I wait.

As it is: —- you’re leaving and there’s very little of left. What a pine of a poet, whose muse has gone awry. Deaf and inarticulate, tracing dust over my shoulder - I cave in and rise, taller than I was. —- Greedy, belly full of emptyness, I hunger for myself to be spilled, scratched and splashed onto each and every page, hidden in every uneven line. —- Scouting through the woodwords, looking for mirrors. Seemings, reflecting in the eyes of the beasts I encounter, tell dark yet little. 

I run after myself,  catch a glimpse of my soles. Stop. Give a headstart for continuum and flash further jaunting through shining webs, too delicate to break.

Covering me, they oblige; we trod on. —- I hear shamble down the globe, a stream, mayhaps a sea, it smells blue and I sink into it - lower through the grass, moss, soil and fire.  I evaporate, coming into thought. —- Smear me on paper, a full moon in daylight sneering through my own window. What a pine of a poet.

There’s a fever I can’t step out of
it tangles me ankles and wrangles me
Senseless I whim out with too much sense —
better crawl under my animal skin, 
wag my tail, stick my tongue out and wait for it to rain
as they howl for my missing mind.
All ye lost, come now for my meat is free.
Holy and forsaken I stare into yellow round eyes
as they carry the depth of my longing.

Ewert kills it Mumfordian style.

Eleven PM. In— sanity. I start with I. First and my, forelost. I feel I’m watching myself, listening myself — as much as self is self — and I’m somewhere deep inside not hearing, not seeing, not talking, not showing — so much of self is growing — outside — is growing smaller.

Constantly without conscience and consistency; I claim my constitution over tea. Having conversations has never felt so absurd. My tongue stumbles whilst I reach out to others, thy song cumbersome, it rarely bothers  (I think to myself) —- the words bouncing — back, off(!) bodies, minds gulping for air, surface ice cutting thin and cracking - no trace of fishes down below.

Algae has slithered forward on to the toes and feet and legs and it surrounds and suffocates. Words in a foreign language gather meanings unknown and - noticed. Words in a foreign language stay veiled and grailed. Words bounce off me. Words clutter up my windowsill, uninvited. I’m afraid I can’t keep them nor keep them away. They’re my algae. Slithering upwards from the sea, crossing yards and feet, climbing knees. 

Everytime you close your eyes. Everytime I close my eyes. Everytime I close your eyes you open mine.

I dreamt of You this morning
wide-eyed and shaggy
as You morphed into a blue skinned Salvador Dali
He had fallen
into sky blue paint in his childhood
after which every step of his
left
lingering a trail of azure scent

Music you want. Straight out of the glacier.

Talent alone does nothing. You don’t ask Talent to play Rachmaninoff over and over again, tell It to telltale (and It does!). Mr. Talent, at your service, is so self-indulgent that It wouldn’t even consider thinking about moving a lumbrical muscle unless you pointed a well-oiled arquebus at It.

And - might I say - of service It is not. The way of inhabiting its owner reminds more of a refugee taking asylum. It asks of you so little - just a patch, a corner, a body - and tries to keep out of your sight, not to mention letting anyone outside let a glance slip on it’s carbon coat to it’s crinkly toes. But, oh, It does not even ask, the sneeky fellow. Having barged in at a cold night on a good winter or any other time which seems to be most forgetful for the unlucky symbiot who’s stripped off ownership, —- Alas! likely have played out their power, left It Engarde! and had it stolen.

I’m getting carried away, far, too and fro. One of many unmentioned ways of the Criminal —- it seeks to sedate you, impale and devour you until you lose sight and sound,  having surrendered safety many a life ago. Thus —- hear this: I say we need more guns. More war. More havoc and fear and pain. So bloodcurdling that Talent would yelp at Its past Opulence of Nothing and meander woefully to It’s Essence. That oughta kick that self-righteous Bastard up from Its pod-chair and match Its form, cutout and shadow; merge into them, as It must be.

Oh, how we loathe fate. Yet fate has nothing to do with most things we weep of. Talent rots in the sewer while we curse and swear the burdens and ships fate has brought upon, unknowingly, diabolically and conditionally unlovingly. I salute Thee, who has rein over Talent —- not considering it fate but whisking the flag on its Island and claiming it whilst not harming and yet nourishing it. I’d raise the roofs for You, if I had one Will left. Tomorrow.

I’d like for us to
make rock music
—- for rocks to enjoy —-
and skip the stones
it’d be low and fast
and the rocks would say
‘At last!’

…

Mu rõdu ülakorrusel elavad linnud! Võimalik, et poegadega, sest vidinat on nõnda palju. (Ja pole vist isegi aeg?) Ma vaid (—- !) kuulen neid ja näen kahe varjusid hüplemas ja noogutamas. Hännavibutajad! Päike soojendab täna mõnusalt ja varjud tulevad väga kummalisest kohast nii, et ei saagi aru, kus vidistajad täpselt peituvad. Loodetavasti jagame ülemiste naabritega linnusõbralikkust. Ma olen alati tahtnud, et mu seinaorvas elaksid näiteks pääsukesed. Nemad võib-olla ei ole.

Neil Gaiman and Audrey Niffenegger talk about fairie stories. It’s a good chat overall but Neil’s pointing out a notion of sexism in these stories —- where the characters are naturally not very drawn out nor distinctive but still —-: 

“Women in fairy tales, who are going to be heroes - particularly girls - they get through a story by being clever, and noble, and loving and patient. /—-/ And they go through hell. And you kind of feel mostly that they absolutely get what they get because they are good and noble and they deserve the end of their stories. 
Men don’t. There was a miller and he died and he left the sons the mill and the house and the youngest one got the cat. /—-/ Is he any smarter than anybody else? Is he nicer than anybody else? No, he’s the youngest and he got the cat. And we’re off! /—-/
Men actually - You’re always really proud of them to get to the end of the story. There aren’t any stories really - that I can think of anyway - in which the male heroes exhibit the amazing nobility.”

I’m not saying to attack the old stories, but it’s fun to think about indeed and perhaps to analyze why it has come to be and maybe if we’re still writing or living the same ways.

Watch the whole animation movie here.  Inspired by Ramayana, a breakup and Annette Hanshaw’s records. Lady sings the blues and I’m blown away.

Vahel juhtub.