Plathological

small theory

Well, in any case, lacking anything, I’m unpeeling myself - it has nothing to do with numbered skin or certain practices in certain parts of Islam. The radio’s mention of superficial organ transplants doing much to raise my brows to its paradoxical phrasing, but little by way of adding or subtracting to the dried glue of my interiority. There doesn’t seem to be an expiration date. Class- as pertaining to school, not social order- is again what it once was when I first entered it – meaning: enjoyable, enriching, exciting, and, as an addition to this round proceeding my last collapse: calming. I feel strange, weird, I said to Graeme, and he asked me what I meant, placing the usual synonyms in his inquiry. No, I feel strange – normal. Fully balanced. I haven’t felt this strange since high school – and even then . . .it’s a total novelty. As in: new. As in: novella. As in: an intermediate form, between two structures – crystallized, but expanded. I’m referring to poesie, of course. That’s the loose working metaphor for my life, and it applies, much like any adhesive, connecting vulgarity of a - gladly - more metaphysical proportion. Best Before Date? No, no. Nada. May be read retrospectively, and drawn upon. The existing, knowingly prejudice Canon of my breath moving along – the stones I now let be on the beach from light to light to too light to carry.