15 March 2006

Contra Chorial-Atlanticism, Cases of Twinning

you look like a perfect fit
for a girl in need of a tourniquet

One more time for all time. Sine and cosynchronous players on porcelain 32's fraying away a pair of slippers and roman numerals trying to make sense of long division, and its a strung out cascade as we dream and sleep and dream further in, a deepening slumber bereft of gravity. There's always a mean low waterway tiding in at our pulse's lapse and brevity's graciousness, juxtapositioning of porous lasciviousness over the mouth and breadth of ever-waxing moonlit skin, the ugly breaking branch of ripple-worrying wave and interdigitation of flitting cell and cellulose wandering these reedy warm entropies. And I've piles and miles of excitation brimming beneath mortar and skin, a chain reaction postulating out the bliss. So what is lovely in me, what of all gods' facets have bound me in any beauty or rattled radiance that even the sun may wane. There is far haste in my own contrivacy, far weakness in tongue and stylus edge that I would be undone at the pull, the succubus libation, a soft touch. We all contain pastoral faces, vast tracts of long-welled time we grope for, press into with vehemence while the old creases burn back at the dark and what is grappling on these facial plains that long pose against us in the pooling mires mirrors tend to be. We've shred these fetters that harass our corporeality, wearing the birdstock paths into our micron films all collagen projected, worrying more time into a hush-filled rage, wreaking a deontological scythe at the bits of life we may have thought held by infinitude.
All our gasoline coils in the tinfoil strings, a colonnade for the more poignant, misanthropic tendencies harbored no further than the arcuate nails ringing into glass plastered panes. It's this sexuality that reigns us, pulls hard into and out of and juxta-posed upon that maybe once we might fall right into the the jigsaw set places our bodies gave us to be in. Past the neon lights we are human, inane, boring, contraceptive and colossal, we are pigmented with xenotransplantations of our forefathers and weighed down by the ponderous hymns of our mothers prayers, but can't we be ourselves in this? Can't we be counterintuitive and interesting for more than a moment when our lies cease look like the long lines of kanji riddled down the next 48 hours running past my projector light. I still have a fiver in my coat, a name on my mind, a beer lingering in the back of my throat, and three hours of tilting jaunt to couple to the infinite rolling of thought that careens in a railway fashion from idea to action to consequence, but there's no cab that can carry all the heady foam dreams I've lofty-bent tumbled into wondering 'what if' resolutely dispensing the last fear. That tiny little nag of a thought cinder and smoke seem to huff and cough out in lacrimal wheezing. The price of our individual freedom, the price of decent sleep, is a surrender. Back to one again.
Wake Les Moonves. I have a few things to shove in his various orifices.