- A
Questions walk near. Perception, like questions, walk the nearest. Flesh-covered perception can be recognized, it makes the flowers like questions touch the thinnest walk upon corpses, is the nearest to zero. Solitude is a flesh-covered, sexless moving in and out, as factual as dipping into water. Even the perception can be perceived, not turning to recognize is recognized. Beauty makes the flowers bloom by feeling like a bag of flesh and questions. Fingertips touch the contour carved by ascent and descent. The thinnest thread walking upon corpses. A mathematical system is the nearest thing to zero. Solitude is not a woman, is a flesh-covered and sexless who moves in and out, a slippage as factual as an oar dipping into water. Even the perception of the act can be perceived most passing faces do not turn to recognize, that too is recognized. Beauty is for those who conjure waltzes of cast gazes, make the flowers bloom by the insinuation of walking in a room feeling like a bag of flesh and questions. Fingertips can touch the contoured evidence that light and heavy move in different directions carved by ascent and descent. The whole of a life as the thinnest thread between can do all this while walking upon the corpses of as much corpse-matter as is currently extant. And X, when articulated in a mathematical system is taken to represent itself in its entirety. And so X is the nearest thing to zero.
A.a
Near the nearest covered flowers
touch the thinnest corpses,
is the nearest sexless water.
Even the flowers bloom by
the contour upon corpses.
A thing is a flesh who moves as factual.
Even the act
is the insinuation of touch
carved as the thinnest thread
upon as much matter
as is articulated in its entirety.
And the nearest thing to zero.
A.b
Near the thinnest nearest water.
Even the bloom
who moves as
the insinuation of touch
the thinnest thread upon matter
and the nearest thing.
- B
There are times you can see my wounds without consequently trying to oversee my struggle so much with an enormous sense that it is factual that I am having no ability to differentiate between my fears and my ability to assert in my fears a person who waits for trust whether what is actually going on comes instead from experience here on this side, over here, in that darkness without the response that it needs to be morning after sending something deeply personal to you, something captured out of some time I translated into words for you, without fear and then a rebuke wish not demean, not thinking, not giving time, the intentions you see through my darkness where you think it responds to, perhaps, that I use words like a person who, only has so many words to describe a different place, perhaps, a different idea- a what about.
Where did you come? I do not read, I do not read your own writings. Is it something of the softness of your own? Or, do you think of me? Mistreated was monumentally painful. A list of an excuse to feel abused. I know I read as a person at times being written into. It is to offer to inhale influenza. But I did not. I did not even, I, I listened hard. I tried for making changes. I gave it time. I read it again. I’ve been waiting to respond. Please don’t miss my approach as you feel. If you become myself in there.
There is doing the same. I do not understand my best compassion. Please my need, too, to breathe easily. Please I’ve written something. Every act of writing is a sending. Please no to my ideas. Please ask my writing yourself. You perceived, you didn’t realize. You didn’t realize you asked me to speak to you deeper (and I couldn’t), and I was in me and tried to get out and send. Perhaps you thought I imagine that absolutely possible for me. It came out only in bits and pieces, as if it was shredded by the act of extracting it. There are other things, I think also bits of pieces of that shredded. Perhaps it is just bad work to shred, but happens to share and thus to be trying.
Please also for me. I as a thing with a soul and a ceremony. It is. I suppose the glorification makes me recoil. I perceive intensely indicative women. Its like squashing bugs like killers. It will be to assuage, no ceremony will take it away. The accident, no force, by choice. The fact signals this act about all that.
B.a
There are times
with an enormous
ability to differentiate
who waits
from experience
here
on this side,
over here,
in that darkness
without response.
Morning after
sending something
captured out of some time
not thinking
through darkness
only so many words to describe.
Where did you
I do not, I do not read
your own writings.
Is it something, do you think
of a person
being written into
to respond?
Please.
in there.
There is my need,
I’ve written something.
Every act of writing to my ideas.
Please ask my writing yourself.
You perceived I couldn’t get out
and you thought I imagine only
in bits and pieces,
as if it was shredded
by the act of extracting it.
There are bits of pieces to shred.
Please is
I suppose intensely indicative
killers will take it away.
The accident signals
this act.
B.b
There are times
here
on this side,
over here,
without response.
Morning captured of time
through darkness
I do not read
your own writings.
Is it a person
to respond?
I’ve written something.
Every thought I imagine only
in bits,
as if it was shredded
by extracting
pieces.
I suppose intensely indicative
of this act.
B.c
There on this side, captured of time, I do not read your own writings.
I’ve written something I imagine only in bits, shredded by extracting.
B.d
There, this, captured time.
Something in bits, shredded.
For Joël Verwimp.
lindsey drury 