“I run my hand along the full of my Body, as Sleep longs in the Dawn.” - Boris Izsus
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Go with me Digging like this:
Sometimes, I imagine a Face, as if, through a hole, bubbling forth a terrifying—yet beautiful—I view. I am writing, perhaps, to finally get over & be done with "the Surface." Their bodies, pressed against mine, produce nothing more than a sad singing in my ears & an impenetrable thirst upon my lips. The 29th year of the voyage, found me growing despondent. Last night in the Woods, I heard a faint child crying in the distant. & it was in that instant, that strangely, I was overcome with an engulfing sense of love, not loss. Because, Little Boy Blue, I’s know, I’s do know. Backed against the screen. My face in your eyes, against the branches’ silhouettes, thrown against this White Wall, at night.
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The complete disinterest of the Field to my Digging. Thus far, the day has come in a Roar, digging up a Somatic Pitch & after placed me here to stand, Bespattered. The noise was stunningly bright at night, when I found myself wrapped in a shawl of Rain attempting to move my Head up from the slippery Surface. This appealed to me. When you’ve touched me, everything else became inaudible. In this narrow gaits of memory it is possible to meet several unexpected Guests along the way, which Weigh one down like Chicago Wind Gust. It’s pointless to move to shut the Windows, might as well let it battered on in, until Morning carries it out. I was always the first to Fall. A Habitual Bride. Gazel Gawk.
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As if this is a marching down toward an Engulfing Abyss of growing my Body larger, multiplying in Grotesquery so as to a Filling myself within this Entire Field expanding into your Vision where I will finally Disappear when you are almost Upon me.
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Imagining this as a Production that would Chronicle a theme of Digging myself digging myself right on past myself.
As a method to keep my story, Ending--------->Within the shingling glare of this Darkness that is coming for us all.
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or:
“my Heart”
“will Keep”
“digging You”
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Sometimes, you have to Silence the Witness who goes on & on, singing of the Surface.
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& this Wind today, cuts along my Face. I alone can feel an immense narrowing lack of Space in this Expanse. The Story of a Woman’s Face. The nature of deviating from a Description of Digging. This idea may clarify: a Body that has no Sides. If you love me, dig with me & we’ll disappear in the Dirt, together. Approximation of Black Birds & the Drive to dig out of my Head, Cripples me. In the Dirt here, which became my Body’s Desire my Bridles of Sighs climb, nevertheless & thicken about me, fervently.
After the Digging, perhaps my Shadow will be carried after, out the Field. Farming a famining further, I find a Red X, on the Head, because what was, was Crippled, a once was. Through the Trees: Emaciated spittles of Light, lapping about the Head, down from the Earth Dead Gone. Dark, as a Dryed Slit. Probably, I’ll continue this Sleepy Quarrel of the Mouth, where the Guttural speaks in these Sounds: The Entirety of Romance, is Bulled in the Blanketed Mires of Stostov. Slippery Sponge.
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It was here I am being Destroyed.
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Whatever is left, will be accumulated between my Arms, as if what I could Grasp was Cawked.
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The Repetitious Reverberation of the notion of how everything Towers below me.
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Once more: all this digging is fluent, but I swore before to learn, word by Doubtful word, the Proper Word for the Fist to dig out & reorganize against the Sunset of our Days.
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I’ve got a Worried Mind
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But then it Occurred to me, that with all this Digging I’ve down throughout my Life, it would not fucking unearth anything, until I began bringing it all down closer to me & still:
