bogged thoughts
Hysterical, isn’t it? Making of the art does not come without a couple chokes, gags, spits, hacks, lips, thinks it’s got an idea of a limit. Do you know this is forever? I know it's forever, so who needs reminding? Everything should be known. Don’t feel guilty for not having every answer, Lotus. It would just come in handy if you fucking did. What do we do with the art when it crumbles? When there is the murmuring, thick silence, because sometimes there is silence. Some days there are Bogged Thoughts, Lotus. Bog Blues. And when these Bogs come and rest on your Blankets, I think you should watch the crack in the wall by your bed and think of the entire masses of everything but have no Bramble to elicit these thinkings to. It’s just you and her. Isn’t that frightening? Because she loses the Capital. Then what? Whaddya make of that, precious? What is the creation then, if nothing bends to the branches will? Would you cut them fine, shaved down if they climbed out of your ears, eyes, mouth? Would you raise the scissors? I pulled out the gun once. Once. It bloomed like a red poppy, the thought. All those thoughts were weeds, tumbling, crumbling, mumbling, what you fear should be what fills the silence. You know the thickness. Don’t we all? Capitalising the rot, well who would have known? What else is there to feed on now? The sweets lost the crystals. The ones that melt from the warmth of your gums. Did it taste sweet, the hot blood that flowed down your gullet? Is this what infected us, precious Lily? Flowers can be poisonous too. What happened, dear Lotus? What made you turn to the paint? What does the art-making shake? The parasite came from somewhere, sweet one. Can I still call you that? Are you still the one? There is singing from somewhere, child. And you mustn’t hide. But how did such a sweet stem turn to something of a khat, fecund, blue and lost? We all know. How much longer do those stilts stay up? Running rabbits in your mind, do they even know that they’ve gone blind? Blasphemous would be one name. Why the questions? One cannot ask without a question. No matter, matter. Madder, hatter? Madder at her? Good grief, Lotus. Except there is no grief that is good. No matter what, flower-power, you must respect the Bramble. The brambling berries on the wrangling wires will do you no matter the hatter what, so you will respect the chemicals. And respect the thoughts that paint them. But to I, a thinker of thoughts, you could counter paints in rough, do thoughts respect you? Why must you paint a Bramble Blue from something melancholic as that hue? Or why does nothing come at all? Why must the packet of pills rattle softly in your pockets and make you understand that those head spins can be stopped quick?
