self indulgent trains of thought

running trials,
dodging massive rolling spiky balls
predicting traps/inactivated, sliding under
dropping doors and saving victims from some fire

n you get some key what your coin(s) could never buy
coz big coin pouches never compensate for lack of
keys and relics, and testaments to deeds manifest
through cooler weapons/tools to scale infested vines
and as this hero of time beholds their inventory and sees
the grapple hooks, the new looks –
the bespoke boots, the coloured suits
fabled lenses t’see through walls and
vessels for replenishment
forgotten maps and empty slots –
to be filled with instruments of mystical utilities
that lie someplace, unfound. and all ‘unfound’ and otherwise remain
but you can’t put a price on these memories.
beating beast-kings, solving mysteries, alone but free

and i reflect on how that game comes back to mind
that distant muse; indirectly now exposed, directing some midnight stream of fleeting thought, oft distracted/redirected
into bits of question time, pangs of hunger/cigarettes
toast and youtube through bedtime and beyond n i’m writing dreams to reflect on in the mornings but it’s never enough and i yearn to remember  the dream where perhaps
i invented tongue kissing or looking inward,
seeing substance and wondrous depth and
feeling proud of my own experience. accepting
and acknowledging and respecting but denying
binaries and absolutes, discourse mapping
conceptual terrain to reflect on and explore,
and learn more on, through the day.
or to be oats one morning and wake up dreaming.
up, that day, tonguekissing breakfast

lack of dreams/less productivity for
lack of routine which i have fallen out of
shape out of which i’ve slacked and melted
shape that i am not whipped into, weaker.
lacking structure but not wanting to need structure


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