19 August 2006

A Chef's Antigonal Parade

Two tattoos of skin
One of ice one of tin
For the days have gone by

The song in the bile says I'm sorry sorry sorry like a backbone rhythm could ever shake it free. So patience plays this game with us as confused unconscious kids will do, leaning backward in the moonlit shade just trying to wait. Leaving these crumpled bones for carpeting, we're not so meant to weave the dextrous sort of papier mache dreams. What is this wanting? What is it that we haven't yet named? Pretense. A postural reflex to the dynamic foam of scrolling context.
Why have everything? With all secrets owning and paranoia drowning out the resolution, what has everything to do with us? If I was a Hannibal with the trampling hooves, mountains would weep at their own trembling. Yes, there's bad timing, but we look off between the words helping ourselves to their cankerous fray, yearning to defy and define convention from the arbitrary so some miraculous fate may give out that love is...
Love is. Love is. Have the everything without and pour yourself and your kind beating out the cascade, the orchestral and further that blinding bank of ecstatic everything into that resounding am following the I.
It's an impossibility, that cooling incompleteness, the white scar folded over the earth. An astoundment. Just here an H-shaped hole slithering in the obstetric void of everyall sucking in from possible abscess across a neverend to more alleverything, but it's sharp and forked, unkind in how it lapses us in our shrouds. How improbable that each of we are conjoined and disincontinuous to each of the other and them. Pagus. Sorted on a length of belief extended parsecs and Mosely-Einstein leaps deep into a temporal conjunct, how inseparable are we. Marvelous, that love is and hate is and I am and you are. And this... well, this is everything. Just here. Just now. Marvelous.

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