The Academic

The Camelbak is gone. Lasted ‘bout 8 days.
It fell out of my hands like this brain falls out of my head.
I propped it up with metal rods but it spurns the unnatural.
And now I have metal rods sticking out of my head.

I once defined a tornado head. And now my head spins too except I knit a fish net and it keep things in place while allowing give.
Except for the holes from those metal poles.
That’s where my brain goes.
I will finish that novel don’t you worry.

Oh talk she says. We all know it’s bitch inside this shell.
It’s being too tired. It’s shy. It’s forgetting to embrace air between mouths that speak.
Talk she says. Not for words, because all she says is words.
Wilde makes good words even if it is just talking.

I did turn off that little vessel in my chest. Only for a short break. She walked into the other room and cried. A bit of thinking on her own time, while I can plunge ahead for a bit.
Hopefully she excuses her atrocious behaviour.
She does sacrifice me in a war that all brains hate.

And all I can do now is sit and think about how or why people are falling into each other and using inappropriate voices. All of them liars and babies. (I told you it’s bitch inside) especially while one takes a vacation and refuses calls for emergency situations.

It’s not the lovemaking, it’s the human interaction.
I enjoy the term bumbling. Hopefully someone else will enjoy that too and then bumbling and this other person will scale mountains, bare children, build houses and write novels.

That would be nice. Then no one would have to push or lie about this talking bit that is usually a battle between what’s upstairs and what’s currently on vacation. Both of them impatient beasts so it seems.