Everybody's trying to be the best
What about the girl with loneliness
I like your sundress
With one eye, that’s how you see them, as they fade in and out of the swarm-red light, fazing themselves into the bits of stranded thick filaments woven around our reality visions, our caudal incisions, our sanctimonious sanctuaries deep covered in much and piss and shite. Canvas traps these are. You see the bus-light reflections against the burnt out lividity of the haze and city streets swamped with rain-night lonely wandered dim-lights pulsing softly to a death-tick. If you continue to read, you get lost in the pages, lost in the story, unaware of the pieces of your own story, the one that nearly everyone in this dark stew becomes obsessed with. They call it living, living with a purpose, a fetish or passion, but it's all just an obsession of the worldly kind, a religious, sorrowful struggle for amiable convenience. they all get caged by their stories, their troubles and dramas and victory wails, they all get caged by their feelings that feel for no one but their tiny ids tempted by the egos, their actions too weak and hopeless to avail them of the guilt-dawn splitting them into all the morning fractals of midnight chevrons. All there sick-sad lettered days fuel them into some form of pangs and bangs and kicks and rage, they form and form and firm and headlong spindle-wire walk the tapestries they spun circling them, noosing them, nursing them. That’s how you see them, with one eye. with two they can walk between your sight, hide in the pockets of neural suppression from left to right, those overlapping plates of animal regression, avoidance of everything a species fears. We're holding our breath in ornithological loops and knapsacks, the percussion thronging, beating the gentle life out of our footed traffic and senicious thought ploddings choreographed to a heightened bodhisattva-straddling safety pin. Wedged.
I submerge myself in the beats, in the charged Czech and Japanese, not for their drug and sex culture, their obvious pins that wake so many juvenile minds, but I like the taste of the words. The flavor of the words as they come onto my tongue and out again because its one thing to regurgitate memories, the black poenic syllables crunching out noise and breaking up the long winded intervals of paragraphic, hypertrophic musings, that’s one thing unto itself. But these. These are neither slow nor swift strange careenings of genuine thought and amenical letters swatting at each other in a buzz of quick conjugal creation broken back into pieces from holy cities of infinitely long words that would never make sense on an ear. It’s a gargantuan strobe. a flash that incenses on forever and never, only a flash to those who see it, a pyre or brief insurrection of rebel fear and portraited, beaming, soulful crashing, thunderous thunder and lighted lightning, quixotic, keyhotic-- melodic-- burrburraburrburraburrburra.
If I could afford a piece of paper for every blinding thought (have at thee) that slippedsorted into the foaling crest of constant tectal innervation, I wouldn’t need to be in this ministry of medicine or pecuniary plotline that seems so maundanely twisted. If I could afford two bourbon bottles and a weekend in hospital, I think I might actually have a fair weekend at rest. I'm more and more like the coaxing ocean, seeing me seeing me and knowing the devil can only tempt himself for the upperhand because revolution is the oldest cannibal-- self-eating and greeting and making of the hatred and love and spied secrets of the allnone and everything of the self but not. There's no ambition, just the dark destructive light of creation ceaselessly slumping toward the tinder and home.