poetry, trails of thought

[Echar un] {im[pulso] / In[tuition]} / (Underground)

I’m reaching the conc-

lose-

ion, slowly it must be said,

that I’m not much more than a churner of

juvenilia.  And yet all I have writ-

ten, the best I have do-

ne, I have

written

with an aye to the truth as I saw it,

and the circumstances as I truly remembered them.

 

And when life gets to the stage that it challenges

you to im-

puls-

I’ve action – when its very lessons are

that intuition gets you know-

where; that seaing the

underbelly is ugly bad show; that wanting to

no the truth of

stuff out there will never get you to places

you want to

be – you realise in the end that

all you have left, and it is not a small matter, no,

it’s one of the grandest yet,

is the love and affection that others express: the love

and affection that uses a dis-

course of racy thought language,

and thought.

 

To have lived a life of battle-weary struggle

means giving way is no longer giving up.

And so my battle against those who

would challenge me in such conflict is now

coming to its end: this time for sure.

And the intuition which led me here I would

much prefer now to share in the privacy

of email and

coffee shop and

human touch and

physical contact,

which the people who really know

how to make me well happy, know full well

what’ll make me weller than hell!

 

 

Time to move on.

Time to move on.

Time to stop writing life,

and go back to living it.

 

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