well… you know what i mean. you know

what all this means. & you know i

dreamt you said that. why you even followed it

with ‘no, rather than coming to terms with myself,

i (for one) consciously try to move

in the opposite direction’.

a sentiment quite like you

but the grin, perverse. then

i remember: we don’t dream at all.

not now. amongst other things

i’m constantly busy fearing the present

will chase us down, will end up out there looming

toying with people. bodies

i used to call friends. just to get me.

an appealing regressive logic. whisper

in my ear ‘how melodramatic’.

how ‘made up’.

oh shoot. once done twisting the time

like some twenty dollar ious

from a tracksuit, we always leave.

why ponder. all possible worlds are

getting tearful. tracksuits dance

while alone, giggling

under an arched window’s blood moon,

cracking off the layers

like russian dolls. it is good

for all concerned we miss

some things.

our driving is unromantic.

haggling goes on nonetheless,

firstly & usually over split pineapples / principles

& then beer, why not. the dealer

round every corner

— he’s a jovial type, we scout him

& play at wit, while we watch

like death & bet farcically

on household bottle brand names.

the granules within will sit simply. secreted

from pockets. it’s automatic.

when you’ve done this

in several different towns,

you’re purpled

love waiting but not for you,

chewing in another bright hotel,

you learn the generalisations that hold.

maybe the tourist signs

that underestimate population;

always the town motto scarcely provable.

all is fun i guess & secondly

i’m coming to terms with my anaesthesia,

even if it is you coming to terms, with this.

i wave to people driving

while you sleep, but only in cars

the same make & model as ours. going

in opposite directions, lights swelling,

they look like her. behind us & static: you.

.

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