Boon Fanny

She’s the girl you hate to love; for she, you know, contains a kind of anti-oxygen that fills your diaphragm in the morning and doesn’t leave till you crawl into bed disfigured. crooked peices of furniture live in her mind and you seaminglessly become a piece, the only thing stopping you from leaving is sense of duty to a high order; the God of love. Who watches over your every movement and notes the way you look at her in the morning as she prances about carefully lighting vanilla candles and telling you all about her favorite piece of music for the oboe, the soft and dark melodies fill you and you have to go into the pantry to get some coffee, when you come back she stands by the kitchen window looking out onto the city below, the morning light fills her gown and you think you have found perfection in the way shadows play with the insides of the silk and her body, the curve sliding and tilting as though it was a piece of music only Moazart could write and the glow of her cheeks as she turns and looks at you in the eyes, you prefer brown eyes or blue it doesn’t matter, these eye transend the very spectrum and your incapable of looking at anything but her being, you sit down pick up the newspaper and sip your coffee, cut to ten years down the line, cut to twenty. 

I think I like sleeping too much. I look forward to the point in the day (around 6-7pm) when I can indulge in a enjoyable and pleasent and good NAP. But what is napping but engagement in frivolrous and childish gameplay? Am I not a Man? who Do i think I am? Napping? what a joke what a laugh? Am I dave the laugh? Or is it the universe who is doing the laughing. In this state of semi-slumber I let myself sink into the most bizarre of sexual and otherwise lude fantasies. Is this normal? I’m not so sure. Ishould be humanoid, in the study of nature I can take no rest but I allow myself this ? my time is finitite and I must make mappings of every function imaginable, look at the series and the pattterns in gods creation, what is repeating? what is repeating? take a step back from it all, relax, sit at a big tree for a while, think about an ex-girlfriend but then dive straight back in. get my mechanical pencil back out and draw a neat parabola, see the motion is plotted by a quadtratic equation but why must mathematics describe nature so well, what is an axes but  CONVENIENT HUMAN IMAGINING. who are the characters in my dreams? if not people i do not really know at all, whom I in fact cannot possibly know. for if i spend enough time dreaming my life itself takes on its own certain dream-like quality in which every moment is a sub-routine in some big and hopeless computer, stepping off the train, looking at a thing in a window. What is life but a dream? when will it begin?

I was walking through a botanical garden with my boyfriend yesterday when we stopped by what can only have been the most ineluctably pure plant pot. It had a certain sheem to it. “Im just going to get an ice cream, pet, do you want a can of diet coke?” that was my boyfriend Phill, he was fresh from working all morning and was in good spirits despite a fairly serious argument we had had last night, it was pure theatre of course, Im not sure I could imagine myself with anyone other in than Phill. He’s a wonderful man, full of infinite kindness even though I can be hard work at times. But perhaps I choose him because he has a steady job and a smooth penis. I try not to think of these things for too long.

The plant pot begin to glow a silvery color and I stooped down to have a closer look. At this point I tripped on my shoelace… or something. I fell in to the plant pot and my khaki shorts fell down.

Down down down

into the bottom of the plant pot

the plant pot is infinite

in this respect like certain objects

mathematical 

but plant pots exist

i have seen one in a garden

hidden in the inner cortex of my cranium

hides a memory … like them all… of a girl

in a garden wearing what is a summer dress

only described as such

behind her head lays a plant pot

which goes on downwards

I can’t reach the bottom for trying

but I do try

plant pot

this has been a poem