Sometimes I dream out loud and sometimes I have the strange sensation my dreams are trapped inside a wheel of death. I sat across from you and explained the strange numerical uncertainty that I repeatedly tried and failed to grasp with my own cut up fingers. If someone were to cut your throat with razors I doubt I would venture to suck the blood but maybe I would. Maybe I would not be able to resist. How is such beauty even possible?
I believe standing up during a sexual act is often quite pleasurable. The moment where unconsciousness almost seizes is of course the very best.
There is too much scar tissue underneath and that is why I was so slow hobbling by the golden pages and all the limitless possibilities. The Russian mob is forcing themselves into my apartment. They want me to confess. Someone else burned a stack of phonebooks and drew something on the road with pink and green chalk and then she danced and chanted while the sun was setting and she saw things no one else could.
I can’t buy anything. I wake up and bleach the sun. My skin is peeling off and my brain is screaming for a retroactive feel. The supple tip of your nipple is letting me know we did not actually win the war and outside there is an awful dog barking and he is letting me know that contrary to popular belief nothing is ever going to be all right again.
Information overload in the valley of pristine disappointment. I flip over on my stomach. What strange and over-calculated things we all are. Though now I feel I may have gone off track.
Did you see me watching immediately after I swore it all away and took my seat on that humble plank of wood? I watched so intently. Flesh colored and peeping. The proverbial heat was on and I imagined with such delight what a rich perfume would be made from the stress and the anger and the hatred. What wonderful suffocation. What exquisite torment.
I miss peaches though I never knew her well. There was a killer at my side as a child. I am someone else and my stomach explodes.
A man on gray waves his hand to me or is it some form of evil salute? 24 bars in and I still have no idea. Ideas flow from the pen like a waterfall on an undiscovered planet. But even that isn’t really accurate. Things are moving much quicker than most minds can process. Danielle, will you never tell me what you are saying? Turquoise strings stab at my heart. And incorrigible melody melts like a clock inside of a sheepish man. I wore the old suit too many times. We were trapped inside of a blue dream filled with smoke and incantations and horrifying orgies were around us and penises were bending and mouths were breathing heavy and throats were grotesquely full.
All these numbers turn to dust inside the rotting inner corridors of my diseased mind and I can’t make sense of any of them. We swing on pendulums and stick needles inside ourselves and occasionally a spot of red marks the formerly white tile of the bathroom floor. I shake and convulse at all the flesh eating puppets that are advancing upon us. How can you say sexiness is a construct of the darkest one? Have we not all disguised in a most hypocritical way everything we wish to have done to us?
Wooden panels against a plastic machine made to hang us from trees while we fantasize about all those kissing cousins we never fully knew. I’ve seen myself getting dressed in your eyes and it always ends with the man down the street buying and oversized plush teddy bear and climbing a mountain with a goldfish bowl clipped to his belt. Every time I open my mouth to scream my testicles start to quake and I grab hold of myself and talk to silverware and wonder why the good time had to vanish like a thousand lost puppies out in the worst rain storm this world has never seen.
I’ve never fucked for the hell of it. I’ve only ducked for the halibut. There is every season inside the palm of my hand and when I make a fist a baby cries and we all let go of ourselves and our orgasms are explosive and platonic inside the pious structures of long drawn out mortals. We’d bite our own tongues off if weren’t for the massive paychecks we’ll be cashing on the morning of a star’s birthday. Giant balls of gas. Formations are so terrifying. I’ve longed dreamed of dancing inside the vastness of a telephonic melody that plays inside the stadium of your love. My fuckness is approaching new depths. I may just have to buy a fucking submarine. Can you believe all the equations that are spilling out of body? It’s enough to make a man fume with regret and then order bacon and eggs until someone tells him to stop out of sheer, manic necessity.
In my strange countenance I’ve forgotten the importance of the lovely. I have many questions about this strange bittersweet air I am breathing. Millions of lines of poems are inscribed on iron bars while I patiently hold for an interpreter.
Windows are shattering all around me. Orange to grey to some tap dancing shoes. I love scary monsters so much. I have a picture of you in my room and it is so close to my heart. The screaming never stops.
I want to die. I wish I fell asleep with a bottle by my side. And then I wish I woke up on red sheets.
I’m about 5 years too late. And now I’ll never see you. You’ll never touch me like you should have. All I wanted was for you to make me cry. But that’s too literal and pedestrian, isn’t it? It would be so easy to see right through things and expose the uselessness barely contained within.
I think there’s a picture of me splayed out on a car somewhere. A woman is naked between two panes of glass and I am afraid to look at her as I pass by. The spiral steps horrifyingly led to nowhere. Everybody knows this is. None of the favorites think this way, or do they? He wrote so much about death but it eventually became one of the favorites. My side will always be yours to take and at every moment I am invading your dreams. I receive no strength from any statements because words are thinner than the air I breathe and I have resigned myself to make war inside a glass bubble.
