Sometimes serious

Our own melodies tune our lives to death We believe in empty artifacts words, tones of voice How do they know of your confinement your getting wrapped in the small fingers you unwound by chance How do you stop yourself from walking into things you never wished to have found in the first place.

Who are you to try to fit Art To a designated canvas measurable foot sqares To make songs fit on magnetic tape of a designated length A self serving artist's calling these days is spread across in a small area Much like a ripple in the world but the size of this, you can see unlike a 100 years ago where it seemed like the world was listening - now you know.

I know now the minute at which the sun sets and rises When I'm nervous I know the speed at which my heart runs when it floods I know the amount of water that overflowed in cusecs. The number of animals that are alive within some species The degrees by which the earth is heating and the exact amount of diminished magnetism. I have recorded the day and the time the GPS co-ordinates of when we grew apart the number of letters in goodbye as a faithful accountant of the heart I have no numbers on my loneliness the degree by which expression dumbed down and smiling and frowning became more similar like interpolated homotopic lines coefficients of a grey space of feelings.