I’m thinking of
tearing you down;
you’re little more than
paper poster
covering up
old and dirty walls.
I’m thinking of
the white, hot, chewing sound
of bookflesh when it’s pulled
from its binding.
I’m thinking of
destroying you
in the solid world —
I have already
ripped you
to pieces
in my mind
and let you flutter down,
tickertape
of my ruined self,
ashes
of my volcano heart,
blotting out the sun.
Where are you, Jones?
Alive and well, actually. I have good news. And comments to bestow. The only thing I’m lacking lately is sleep, and enough free time.
I would love to hear your good news, Jones. I hope it is what I think it might be.
Understood about time and sleep. One you can never make enough of, and the other is overrated anyway (or so I tell myself).