what brings me so..
close in
causing me
to fumble
with my weary
hands

i will

fuck you
all

i let the flower between
my drunken thighs
blossom

all you ripe buzzing bees

i've prepared the landing
site

carefully unfolded the silk
petals

come and sleep
on me

I feel like I'm clinging. I'm clinging to my books and my music and my changing ability to interpret myself. I'm clinging to my nighttime fantasies and my nighttime hopes and I'm clinging to you. I'm clinging to whatever I can still feebly grasp with my numb fingers.

Why do I have moments of sheer ecstasy and utter exhaustive despair in one day? I want off this ride right now. I don't like crash landings. I like climbing down into madness slowly and surely while falling in love with the flowers along the way.

How can I describe how I feel? Its hard when you don't even feel fully conscious. That's the only way I can put it. You can't describe something in detail if your not even there to feel it. I'm not even here. But... I don't want to die before I'm dead. So I continue to fumble in the dark for the switch.

My limbs feel like they don't even belong to me. I feel like everything I see is as if on a giant screen. The characters are surreal and absurd like clowns. Everyone looks like a clown to me. And clowns make absolutely no sense. All my parts are trying to break off and get away from me. They want out. They can't bear to take orders from my drunken brain anymore. I don't blame them. I'd get out if I could too.

I think everything is going to collapse. The trees, the walls, the floor, my body. The air is going to combust and my eyes are going to burn up.

I feel like I am becoming an owl. The night invigorates me. Its an inverse universe and I belong to it. I feel at ease in its vague shroud. The day time lets me see too much. The night air glosses over all the wrinkles, cracks in the pavement, and dead grass in the yard. She gives me instead beaconing lighthouses lining the sidewalks and strange, material winds that seem to wrap their hands around me like shy and passionate lovers. The night is my lover. She doesn't speak. She doesn't rely on plastic imagery and gaudy color. She doesn't explain herself before she acts upon me. She just takes me under her thick, nourishing wing and silently prods and licks and beckons and reveals. She doesn't know those baser senses. And she makes me forget about them myself for a little while. At least until I can no longer push through that thick, sweet night fuzz and drop to my grave for the scathing, scalping sun too soon to come.

Mourning comes. I wake up confused and longing, waiting for colors to fade, counting the hours until I can escape my muscles, and my skin, and the yellow of my hair, and everything else that wears me down.

-s

my senses, oh my wondrous senses, bloomed inside of me. scents, breezes, sun rays, glimmers of light on water, animals, swaying branches, glittering leaves, swirling dandelion fluff, they all blossomed in front of me as if a numbing, blinding skin had been shed from my entire being. god, i fucking felt so alive! i felt present. not for want. content. i could have not cared about my impending death any less because i had what i wanted: the sensitivity to be completely overtaken by everything right at that moment.

-s