I was at a funeral on the weekend, there was a smart reception by the sea by the hills by the sea most of the bodies in the building were in black. We had little red napkins, tiny would-be sails sailing pies in miniature, hand to mouth, mouth to floating potato-top mid-air words there were so many kind words.  I always end up thinking about dying when I’m listening to the aching at a funeral. I think about the people I have loved who I no longer know. I think about how many people I still love and how much hurt there is to go, when they all go, and how positively haunted humanity stands to be, century after century accruing loss. I watch people crying, in their best clothes on their worst days, rejoicing in the prize of peace. Our earnest human eternity, defeats itself so easily, of course, in the back pew picturing god you want to be the artist. The poor sod vintage feel-ist, covered in the past, designed upon a twinkle so far forward (every elder brother to millenia) powered by the same juice under churches – to live and die for something believed yet unseen. I stayed with my family in an art deco house, the hot tap went the wrong way, it wasn’t really by the sea it was a road over and the backyard wasn’t exactly sun soaked the sun nibbled at the edges of swaying shadows. I met some very good people. I stayed up late working on Bear City, I am up to 33. I was grateful to have a mind to play and hide within, I was thankful to find another door inside the mind. I am an obedient student of attachment, labouring to scale the gossamer, where it glints point to point.

33.

B. Pursuing a rival who doesn’t know you’re there
retrograde mysterieuse
offices raided in Moscow
Assad under siege

A. (really I’m just hung over and sick of bleeding every month
like a shit for brains artist wasting money on ice cream bricks
inventing morals in the wee hours
trying to
talk the devil out of me and stop blushing)

B. Nordic god of girl in diamond rain
least deadly month lonely French farmer pictured
blurred across the fields
a counter productive disdain
the road we left behind
poor forgotten forefather.

A. Patting gingers and fisting the sun
I keep on being
the un-me

closing my eyes when I kiss
same as the movies

in the morning I fucking regret it
all I recall is black desert.