25 January 2006

Terricloth Galleys in a California Den

Just before our love got lost you said
I am as constant as a northern star
And I said, constant in the darkness
Where'’s that at?
If you want me I'll be in the bar

progeny A generation of martial children, raised on strings to marionette tunes, free to think and bleed and die, free to whisper and cry. No words too loud, no ear wrenching actions, but syncophantics and simon says are fine games we're told. How about we take offense, offense at helping hands and generosity, offense at ancestral wrong doing, these sins that spiral our histonic DNA. I'm offended that my actions are thought too nice, that my efforts must be cut back. Substandard is the mean, the most normalest feeling; how dare we raise the bar and fill others with guilt, how dare we do as we feel and effect change, but self-improvement, you see, requires one to feel inferior, its a state of masochism,doubt and hatred of the ego, self-masturbation.
digression A fluidity transcending bounds of thought, of cogitation and rationale. Scratching at the skin and flaking the words of poor desparity I have accumulated the sins in casing the people the surround. In penning the thought I am condemned, by myself and nay who might know what has become. Not all things may come to term, a chord may slip in variance, a lyric may vanish, but it all still goes on. The stain finds the clean, innocent bit to distend, corroding all shape over form, and I am the only breeding shadow the shades know by name. The areas set in, invading, invectifying our subtleties of humour, of defense, the sharp curve of tongue and hasping clack of teeth, the foetal idea of childhood lost, miscarried, or freemartin to its darker brother, violence.
What an abyss we fated feel, there but for our eyes we may constantly reel. Battered by indecision and carnal incision, we are pasted bits of everyone gleaning a small notion of I.
I shall practice as if I know what exactly is real and what precisely is mind's own. Just before our love goes...
in existing In ordinance, biphasic transgression that we are war, committment and competition, a blast of semi-transduced laughter, quivering. There's something I'd like to know, just before all this goes. We are infintesimal and partruited through this virgin microfoam,keep your eyes open wide for the first bit of fresh air, fell, sweet, and sublime. Sobriety is by far our worst of vices constantly worshipped for its clever attempt at wit. Belated as we are, so off by our own volition, what violet ambling lay there for us at the sortid juncture of our pleasantries. We are lips and hands fumbling in empty embrace, caustic to our own lamentable insecurities. But then you hold yourself and I press in, the reception is more encumbered, more than either full or past. Oh, there are blessings, each one a wound to us, a screw knitting our polarities tightly in a crush, so much more violent than brass and fists, beam and bone. We are lovely. Incendiary and translucent, bridging the worlds we fail to fully occupy. Part and part, we are hardly whole, hardly full, pangs and hunger in figurines, we are weary of the lost and losing, the holy omission of one another. There's love. There's always something akin to the spicules and folded hands, a brush of hair and tips, this service, this time. We disassemble our maturation, weigh our flailing thoughts against time just hoping for an onset, an exit. Exeunt. We should have gone as well, our skeletons tying the last knots of our focus and so we didactically chaste and throw the other off, winding our own way after our love is gone. Oh, there are blessings, and we have none. Only the other.
pale Pulled from noiseless earth, from wet womb combed over with shit and dead and dying. Pulled, thrust up to power and anger and vile. Level me to a point, a solid one-off statement that no novelist can cling to. Pray tell. Pay til. Til an end comes into sight.

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