Under the lapping scum-glazed waves of unseen sleep I study ripples in the pink pond of every kiss I never let you have. The wet heat sighs greasy vapours into the red sky and up to hold hands with its lost and wandering clouds, and it's all love and it's blood and it's anger, softest and weakest underneath, with the shafts falling out of the sun like worms through the water. You affect an unfolded posture as though freshly unwrapped, but I'm all stumps and rainstorms, and you're unimaginatively sequestered on a wind-beaten peak of banal symbology. It is a dispassionately overfamiliar spectacle, as if I threw up the final shaken dregs of my serotonin many too many of your sicknesses ago. My circles are rank with contagion and if I was more patient a patient then I would not be afflicted with subconscious visitation such as all of this leafy wet tundra, uncannily scentless like a digital photograph, and I can feel that I am in love but I've nothing to hang it upon and the furs of it are chewing at my generous hands that reach out and cast it all around like confetti and swing up to brush at my hair and shield my screwsealed eyes as I run and wade and sink away from the chipping stinging embers of these fake colours and inherited longings and the itching gnawing sticky bristles and needles I have spread. I put red in the red from under the red; reddest red whistling out of fissures like so many rusting kettles, and you look a little worried up there, sometimes; you, little dot a little down and to the left of the sun's empty chair, at that underwhelming obvious summit, and all the slow dance down you look cold and I rattle with lucid shame, that a smarter companion out of mind would have seated you somewhere far more artistically challenging out of my wounded hibernation. I paint the broadest possible strokes with my dangling arms and billowing legs, aggressively overselling my situation both within the fiction of the poem and as an exterior deconstruction of its relevance to my precarious desire to be understood. Down and down, I flail for your attentions up on your disappointingly uninspired tor and I type and pander wretchedly with the most basic and patronising imagery because even though I don't know who you are, I don't expect you to adequately comprehend these words, and if you think that doesn't make me irrepressibly sad about myself then you're far less intelligent than I would ever let anybody think I believed to be true of anybody on this earth, because it's dirt that a strong person buries in the holes that they dig; not bulbs or bones. Meanwhile, I conjure this entirely, addressing some audience from outside of myself underneath the drawn curtains of twisting coma, but I can't distract myself for long enough to forget that you're watching me die.
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