i braid myself into a tapestry of moods.

my contour. my texture. my isolation. reveal a pattern in bitumen i find familiar.
i find nothing special in tapestries.
i find nothing special in moods.
both bore me.

they are trying to be too clever with the change of scene.
i delight in monotony. in the monotony of circumstance.

there is comfort in its consistency. it allows me to look carefully at things.

to avoid the shallow seductions.
to avoid the glistening games.
to see its morphology squirm below.

i come close to smell its scent this way. my fingers become the eyes of my tongue.

afro hair. dense and woolen.
posts lined as soldiers in triplicate.
eggs sunny side up and adjusted for instagram.
ribbons in concentric circles dancing bossa nova in disgust.
flower pots on the threshold of windows threatening to jump.

i will take your feet tonight and walk them through the boulders of volax.
like page numbers, each stone marks

a thickness of an eyebrow.
a generation of cyclothymiacs.
colours washed by the sound of your hardened voice.

when i look i want to see only endless flatness