Fluffed

i don't know what i'm doing

i don't know what this means

reality is being a little fucky

nothing is what it seems

the nothing that became something

turned out to be something else

something that in turn became

the nothing that it was

i got that spongey feeling again

in my legs and in my head

i hope i’m not a mollusk

as i fear i have no shell

i have no wish to exist as a fish in this,

this flop on the deck kind of hell

tongue tied to a trivial tirade

uplifted and yet quelled

by the same nectars

"i recommended a seminar strictly"

autocorrect just fucked me

and now

i’ve forgotten the next line

.

.

.

i just remembered

that "good line",

it was shit after all

- bloody nectars

here’s another

i prepared earlier;

something to do

with the shine on a pond

and the cry of a lone bird

at dusk

something about

the afternoon sun streaming

through a windowed web

possible reference to

a lesser known movie

or film

or TV show

i still don't know what i'm doing

i still don't know what it means

something is the art of the nothing

and the nothing is the stuff of pure dreams

but then you know what they say

at the end of the day

all work and no play

there's always tomorrow

tomorrow,

tomorrow is an embryonic concept mould

mine, yours, everyone’s

now,

now is nothing more than what it is

this whisper thin skin and moment you're in

yesterday,

yesterday is just another nervous response

a set of synapses to think of or on

and so if this is it

why the fuck are we here?

what the fuck are we doing?

where the fuck are we going?

and what the fuck are we gonna do

when we get there?

i dunno

prolly

just write about it

spose