Here's a short thing I wrote a couple months ago, just thought I'd post it. Looking back on it, it seemed like I was trying so hard to sound thoughtful and introspective, and in reality I still have no idea what I'm talking about. But no matter; tripe or no tripe, I just liked writing it:

i'll let life move me in me
churn me please,
the milk of human kindness
butter-becoming
constantly recycling reincarnating old trash
in bins and depots overflowing
with this lovely life-garbage
a seasonal dawning the resurrection
the good news erection

and we'll all peel out of those old hides on
occasion but we're dying to get back in
patching quilts of past-life skins
to document the self with self-armour
because life is that old beast that deadline
the dead-feeling those face-kisses and missed
phone calls the unturned pages of the calendar

to which you come home to every night and
stare at in the mirror over and over hoping
to force a change, constantly wrenched from
a constant new womb thrust into a
new family, a commune of strangers
who have nothing in common but that
same warm place,
that same once-occupied space
we all have recorded deep down in
the blueprints of our hearts.