She smells of angel shit
[no one mentions it]/ I’ll
start my MK1 Bayesian
Probability Machine & it
may warm me under my
Markov blanket – such a
confusion of thought & I
will scrub at it [all]/ Free
energy is that difference
in a place we anticipated
& this place our eyes tell
us we are in – feeling out
for less shocks with less
free energy – I think [or I’ll
think not] & offer my last
words on these problems
[it ain’t for rhymed poetry]
as Friston wraps himself
[such minds get worn out
& seek sleep to so dream]
Tag: sleep
Perfect Isolation
Coupling bees are falling [Thut!]
Over-wrangled & humping – as if
there’s no tomorrow – they know
how things are & how things will
be – now our lives are set by rays
outside/ I am not clocking on [or
off] – I am welcoming primordial
rhythms & sleep’s brenne of fat/
I am back to my Neolithic ways –
food is sparse – a scattering – by
dusk none – then rest under dark
until more calls of birds/ We are
slimming & dying/ I have plans –
my lover & I will leg it to an isle &
walk naked – uncloaked to loose
ways ’til sunset aligns our return
to a bunk – there we will fuck [for
hours] then a night [torn covers]
& all that time our children sigh –
Mother – Father – What? & Why?? –
but outside Shiants will whisper –
by tides & gust – Yird yer watches
& bury yer clocks! – as we gyrate –
to eye each other’s wanting face
& lips – then less timorous in kiss
& contact [in our perfect isolation]
Motes Never Settle
Roll [once more] into sleep’s spindles
& those coils of dreams – of rapid eye
movement – of phases of oat moon in
your turned back eyes – roll with every
fade-in & out of your dreamt phantom
[let sleep be your muted counsel now I
am not asked]/ Pull that drag of duvet
back from my vacated space – as your
body rubs on my flaked flaws – risings/
See those particles after bed-making?
I will float high over your future lovers
& enter their sleep & be a disturbance/
I’ll sprinkle a truth [motes never settle]
Also on Medium
Loneliness?
Is it that [noticeable] difference between [all of] our estimations of how our now life develops & our realised truths – confronted in our [day-to-day] attested life seen by one self? My loneliness materializes as a near-to hollow arousal & interior conversations alongside familiarities – without sex & kisses – to make me slide
from my oh-too-dreadful times I come to – after fearful dreams of her rousing weaves of scent – of that stuff been slept through It forms into a recall of my dark
night’s one act of creative work If it wasn’t for those sighs from my sleeping dog my loneliness would suggest – Never wake up
Now Let Me [Finally] Rouse Alone
“..it’s like a good fuck,
half is worse than none at all”
Maeve Millay
Westworld – S1 Ep 9
Extract my whirl of memories
so her censure [when I wake]
isn’t my recurring cauchemar
after another disturbed night
of wily gledges by our rewind
[a play] of misconstrued sex
My raw dreams need removal
from my eye along with paths
that we wandered & we knew
[those we crept before access
was removed – after our lands
were sliced in half by our hate]
If there is a switch – or a code –
then engage such to re-set me
before we met \ Let me forget
& not abrooke more nightmares
set in mortal time’s witherings –
half my mind needs defragging
to do tonight & every other – be
cleared of her malicious wraiths
Now let me [finally] rouse alone