Is More Than This More Than This?
I love you.
Please take me to Ireland, for,
I want to see you in Ireland, seeing Ireland for the first time.
I’ve never seen the sites of Ireland before,
And as such,
I feel like that absent recipient of your invite
Has deposed me
Has made me into the front cover of your book.
How it should be, in my mind’s eye is
All best, and all to me, really.
Just megalodon Fin megalomania.
The shorn off fin as branch
Away from my ideal (or towards it)
I don’t really understand how resin can bleed,
Nor do I know the difference between stage blood and real.
Bridging the gaps between discrete individuals is your worldview, but
I want to help
It’s heartbreaking to love you.
To declare is to shoot it on site,
To profess is to put kibosh,
A confession is a sort of mercy blow, if I make it.
It’s screaming into mediums to love you, John.
It is heartbreak to love you,
My sheets were open once,
I was capacious to a point, but
To declare now is to do away with capacity,
To confess is to enshrine,
Imprison in withering boughs.
There is no such thing as procedure amongst these trees.
I tried to lay myself wide open,
Flat, willing, oiled.
I couldn’t continue alongside the haunting,
Of a scenario of facehugging
And speaking lies into existence.
It makes the sea a cyclical vortex,
All routes leading to a single point-
Not across, but
Throughout,
Querschnitt esque, even
Sunken and drinking
Taking in water,
Capsising due to overuse,
If overdoing it could ever exist,
There’s a potential for it to enter my practice,
Except,
(Is more than this more than this at all?)