nick drake, rilke and the story of tiny gates: december

wrote to her today. my paris love. things haven't been making sense of late. consider the following and have fun looking into my thoughts: the rain submerged in white noise, cats wilder than the storm, fire ants what have you stolen from the rogue regime that they have not seen forsaking the past, fewer tunes than the last guitar string yet he keeps tuning, the odd ends and beckoning hollows, what felt felt felt felt the lonely silk worm, if such was the murderer's tally then perhaps we would all begin the journey south but not before the eve, not for some warmth to these tethered hearts, hanker for a man a fool a breast an aeroplane a swimmer's strength stop dead the tracks and live foundationless heck to heck with older fewer than the ancient have ever sold to dark mind, fly birdy founder the island next and call it takrit, wholare, beforu, maekkathore, anything for the foreign to see joy and rest pixelated and become full then fool, songthoughts i spoke jim morrison first as child then hung the blues from the ends of my heart strings before drake took me away to faraway islands, rangoon rangoon, rangoon, you old sod the bastard was born in myanmar, hardly an island not burma for the sisters in drag have they forgiven me i think there's a beach though, no? sense is hard to come by sometimes and maybe thoughts are better left without cause. read rilke today. a picture of him on the back of the book, his eyes were like marbles, gaunt face, shades of the nameless grey everywhere, such darkness it overcomes your apathy for anything, and you wonder how the mind behind it wrote of our happy endings... dancing tears. how such phrases could have made sense to a man whose face was so full of the night. i wish i could read german. i don't want to speak it; it would twist the curvature of my tongue which is so perfectly suited to english. i wish i had a better use for this language than this senseless vomit. never want a job again. all that work was too much strife for an illusion of respectability. i wish i had said other things to her in the email today. i used all the wrong words. i wish my french was better so i could make sense to her. how dreadful life is without her, "chagrin", "peiné", "l'amour", "concevoir" as opposed to "imaginer", "colère", peiné d'la merde: this worthless life. with words, but no expression, no way of expression, no route to her, but by zeros and ones, and even then the gates are too small for the chemistry to pass unscathed. rangoon, what language do they speak in your streets? have you space for another lost soul?