awareness

cos why not put up an old prose(ish)-poem?

Once, in a moment that lacks the requisite panache to label appropriately, I felt the nourishing trickle of consciousness fall heavily away. Breathing, then, through an absent nose, on a face disjunctive and garbage laden, the notion occurred that perhaps wakefulness is a sign of belonging: a chorus line of motions perfectly in sync like puppets on a string.

Sure, we couldn’t be stuffed

                                                but we’d eaten.

                                                                        Couldn’t be rooted

                                                                                                           but wanted to.

The crashing of scraps and hormones and desires dissipate in the sudden vertical disappearance of awareness and the doona envelops this loss like a baby wraps itself around an iron toy which is comforting for the imagination and stands in for its mother who is what it knows of love.  But we’re not a child and I cannot afford to get that confused again, coming back again, then again to that same invalid being.

The surface of the mind as it slowly spirals down what feels like a sink

– but, mate, isn’t anything like a pipe –

is slippery under the touch of my hand. Sincerity, or a solid memory, was never a strong point, so perhaps you didn’t happen.  Though if the warmth that fuels my feelings is absent I’ll always reach for it until someone declares it’s over or something else develops into focus for my whole state-of-being and holds tightly onto the erratic rhythmic drip of the always perplexed thought of together and its notions that in this central moment matter not a jot, not a ‘sweet fuck all,’ as if it was only my idea of it. This time then the last of my heart.