this big sexy regret machine

I know you’ve got allergies, but please come back soon. I started taking new hormones. Without discussing the specifics, they were an acceleration of a typical process. They came in a small white packet, sealed like a breakfast bar for your lunchbox. The intention being that this snack would give you tits. The pills themselves are one milligram. They are small, white, and easily lost. They were a new addition to the evening routine. Their packaging has a day-to-day record. Like a calendar for poorly rationed emotions, you would always stay on schedule. The first week had been taken by a mouth not my own. Though, the first Monday had gone untouched. Nobody eats Mondays. Garfieldian. I started on the pills without problem. They were high in ambiguous, medicinal content. They had an intentional direction of use, prescribed for one reason, yet they sat on the edge of my throat for parting reasons. They sat, waiting for water to come, while I wished for growth, development and change. I too...

A Magpie Feathered and brushed, alone and glimmered tail Looking for bugs in the same green I’m sitting in. He worms through the ground, Snuffing food, shuffling in small, Grassy hops. Daisies and thistle, Sweet clovers on sleeping soil. I make eye contact with him, I know he sees me too. He got close before instinct shot in, and he Shuddered off. The sun is Oblivious. They don’t care, nor do they ignore. The blue is unawakening. I message my girlfriend. The company is appreciated. A Magpie I miss flies away. A Magpie I pray kept a shrewd distance. His eyes stayed set on me. A Magpie accomplice arrives. They purr at one another, With small warmths between them. They are daisily sapphic. In search for matching glints, a spark caught in twos. Both have beautiful feathers. Opal feathers and the grass, Populated by equally avious bees, flies, ants. Sparrows crest and trough their plateau. They swell the wildflower walls, Spying me and simmering back. A Magpie scours for bugs still. A M...

The sent signals are going nowhere. Nothing has been coming through the letter box. I can no longer visit the post-boxes. I’m doing everything I can to listen, yet my eyes are swamped in fog. Everything is unclear. Everything is vague and unspecific. I find myself waiting. Waiting to hear something, some difference in tone or sentiment. Still, there are tones around me. Notes that are chiming with bizarre repetitiveness. They are frequent, but never often. I have been burnt out for the past month. Once the bowls are finished singing, they begin to speak. In the air they leave behind, in the openness and in the space they separate, they leave open a temporal mouth to speak from. I listen. I try to listen. I try to clear my ears but my right ear has been blocked. I took one bath and my ear became stuffed full of nonsense. I am not hearing mathematics, nor am I hearing words. I am hearing a minute tone, followed by a small scratching inside of the ear. I am waiting to hear the bowls sp...