19

19 Dec 2025

in the middle of the mountain

and i don’t want to go home

nor do i have anything to keep me here.

i feel that melting block behind my eyes,

but i just have to think of things to do

lest the ice skis down my cheeks again.

i don’t know what i can do.

how can i paint with my chipped nails and aching stomach

aching thighs aching calves, that bubble like a raclette

and the oil sticks to the back of my throat and i wish i could have something to do.

i’m waiting for a desiring coagulation in every of my capillaries.

a desire to eat something other than food,

eat a meat other than animal. and who to turn to in this needy nine o’clock.

in the middle of the mountain, i don’t want to wander up

and look down on the glittering people below

in the middle of the mountain, I don’t want to fly back down to the pays bas where i look up at the rain up at the cold up, up to the elderly clouds.

when time passes in this middle i can’t stay awake

and i’m swept inevitably to the sign toward the sea

or the mall or the mudded fields of buttercups.

and its making me want to cry.

i wish i could think of something to do.