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  • Writer's pictureAmelia Nicol


A thought, you will forget where you were and end up somewhere else altogether, the pleasantry of online catalog and my own mind humm drumming the patters of patterns in heartbeats so relevantly heartbroken and less relevantly mean at the positions of capabilities and worry. Gathered interstitial mayhem and consideration of repetition and competition from saddened anger and frustrated cold relevant positions of rage and indicative silencing. The heaping piles of pitiless metaphor forbidding itself entrances and kissing the entrance-ways to heartbeats from the folded top of the ear. Blushing, the same bone and same vein I still remember, these filaments take quite a long time to become relevant themselves in textures and not just tactile representation. Thresholds grasping hems and pant-legs grabbing corners of vents blowing cavernous winds of metaphor and plenty of blank spaces. Shuffle brain, quickening about the commensurable stances of doubt in physiological nomenclature, padding in places assumed still and moving from the straining pieces left in places the scientist hasn’t entirely turned it in on itself yet as if with no more fortitude than a dream, some present postulated attitude for wonderment comes crashing around just because it can. Justifying its own quiet annoyances with the swinging of scaling linguistic chords to end the piteous rapport of the torpidity amongst the dead laying in heaps hoping for their heartbeats, wreathing and remembering themselves the same instances of blocking and baiting for the forbidding casts we throw ourselves in uneasy lots with. Wringing my hands, ships to sail the moon and forgetfulness in large gaping doubts [[and paralax]] hoping to discern inaccuracies in memories, in splattered excitement of a new thought form after realizing something, in forgetfulness or inaccuracy or unknowing nervously vetting myself wiring for carrying along a certain current. Allowances and excuses for the cutting in of language that is too curious for itself to be grasping at from knowing only one language. How could any language say it knows no other?

Presenting moments of frustrated reason from forgotten limbs dismembered and kept for further dissection and exploration. Trying to grasp casually at something of alarm like an imaginary image formed as representation of a thought in nightmarish dimension unrecognizable and terrifying itself in the frames of relevant movement allotted. Allowances of flesh, of birth and or death, of winter worry and wringing of hands, of handsome spring in old suddenness and beauty. Shadowed caricatures of limbs, of old iron and steel wheels churning deep furrows of earth escaping in depths barely breathing the deep mourning of frozen ground broken to release a smell of spring. Calm and strong sureness in sturdy motion and patient motive, bright humor and dark burrowed springs of calm harrowed laughter begging of the calm sure in its own nervousness and insecurity. It imposes itself silent insecure. Surety, security and those limbs of rapport in supposed opinion that you keep chewing at yourself with; mouths moving, no words. No condolences from these, the fairness has been unjustified for itself in sureness for quite some time; though even time has forgotten itself in trying to forget it’s own limbs and carry the sorry gait of its own dead body. Hours for zero, vagrants and the numbers forgotten or left lost between keys for hidden rooms or tried closet space. Gaze empty at the gaps between the ideas you could hope to be making but work to perform and those same very ideas which say that life is a performance itself, and has no need of platforming. Your audience your own gazes, passing and passionate embraces of resilience from your own chasm of doubt and resonance in refraction and hard angling from soaking aches and dull remembrances forbidding pressing excitement against the emotional rage in arching loops of flare and intensity.

Remembered again itself as saying again that its all useless, the pen and page and all the paper to weight some passage of supposed relevance that never entirely arrives its destinations, the pre-existing prevarication of passing peripheral to hand a hanging resting threshold in rhythm or template in wording about. Composition, presenting itself forgetting. Gracious hindrances in heavy weight and sturdy lifts catching inaccuracies hurried to interrupt and forever quiet in quickening too often or pretending. False steps have all spiraled the ways we remembered them, and not just the viscous collection of forced cooperation ripping up the very templates of diagnosable personages in speech or characterization: just, don’t worry about the standardized personality traits; everybody’s got them.

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