He looked at photographs to which he had no right,
no claim, no place or presence. He could
still feel…. I was nothing then and
still the same now. Passionate kisses. Of course that is only the soundtrack, not
the experience. But let’s not diminish
that. The Italian who’s not Italian. I can only laugh now because nothing ever
made sense. And I can’t bring myself to
forget. Saving a dance that would never
be. And then a near missed encounter;
meeting over someone who is no longer here.
Something is happening and he feels so sad now. There are no real memories present so why is
this still haunting? Nothing makes sense
anymore. That may already have been
said. there is a beauty in the blue. Everything grew from this and now others are
suffering and it is his fault. That hesitation, the thanksgiving potluck. Nothing.
Should not have this. An
unexpected embrace. I was awful. I’m still awful. Formative.
All up on the eight point five.
And now Nyro makes me cry with Lu. Looks like someone’s extra sensitive
tonight. What’s that in your eye? The smartest
man on the cinder would certainly know.
As the perfume bottle spins and spins.
I don’t think the teacup will ever come together again. This is probs his favorite time of the week
but it’s only the diehards who truly know it.
Too cool to be forgotten. the
spelling may not be quite right but the sentiment is true. Back on the chain gang. And the connection was stunning in the moment
from Laura to Lucinda, the loneliness from girl to women, the thirteenth confessions and the essence in
everything. Please don’t settle for
anything. I think those words have
almost entirely disappeared and are only known by one now. But that’s okay. Head goes light. How utterly proper. But passed along just the tiniest bit. The green science fiction eyes. Die for you.
This one little bit, maybe that will always be remembered. We are all so fragile. Everything is so fleeting and he’s painting
great and epic portraits, all awash in words and all in effort to set free
everything contained within. Towers of words
and no one listens. He’s breaking apart
now. It began with ink. Spring dress green and yellow like in the
fields. Back again on those connections,
the reverse. i try to forget who I am
but fail every time. the rain dogs and
the rose colored essence; these are the sounds of a Saturday night, of feeling
lonely when in the heart of everything, with everyone right next to you. What are we stealing? What is she thinking about in this
moment? The envy is real but the
identity is unknown. No, not entirely. Was anything real? Are things coming to an end? And he shall remain failure. You were writing water and it worked so
well. You wished to be a drop of rain
running through her hair. Are all one
and the same? This sadness is lovely. I don’t know what comes easy. All traces back to the first dance. And every modern moment now frozen in black
and white photographs.
I am currently in the process of reassessing all of
Spielberg’s post Schindler’s List output.
Additionally, now that the third and presumably final part is out I must
also entirely reassess the 3 EP’s (or was that last one an LP? I think so) Nine Inch Nails has released in
the past three years. I enjoy both of
these processes. I am also highly
enjoying Stephen King’s new novel The Outsider!
It’s a real corker of a tale! And
I squealed with girlish glee when he made very strong reference to an old
luchadoras movie! I adore
luchadoras. Experimentation is so
lovely. That is in reference to
something earlier. Those three will form
part of the vital sounds to my burning summer.
Let me smell you. that’s how you
can get me to stop screaming. In the
boiling stench of the morning with the torn and yellow pages between my
fingertips I questioned for the first time the persuasiveness and validity of
the words. Did the ink have less power
than before? Only the night will know
for sure. The night and what it chooses to
give up. The validity does not really
matter either way. And the
persuasiveness…? Hmmm, as a work I think
the audaciousness of it will still burn bright for a long time.
So in a great sense almost everything has been
reinstated. There only remains one more
crucial component. I think I shall begin
with an aardvark or perhaps a bunny. Or maybe
clay. Clay is often reliable. And afterward move on to something human and
something but not leaving those others behind.
By the end of the season then things should be firing accordingly. And soon, apropos of nothing, the electronics
will arrive. Oh yes, they’ll push his
buttons. There are so many buttons in
this world. Why doesn’t anybody push
mine?! I scream this while accidentally
slamming my fingers in a door and then I scream something unintelligible due to
the pain. But that thing from
before. I can remember all the good
times and how it meant so much to me. it
began with a haircut, yes? And from a haircut
to a tell all book. how is it that I feel
fine? I need to check on something in
roughly 90 minutes though by now it will all have been unceremoniously checked
on. We are in shackles. I see these passages now as most
important. Not from this world. Call backs to something else. Blackstar’s saxophone the guiding hand. And an imitated croon I must reflect on. But as I said, experimentation is the
key. Maybe even the keyword. There’s sawdust inside my big belly. Where did
I put my pocket watch again? Very close
on the mouth in the tactile fairy tale.
I am a field on fire is a beautiful
declaration. Perhaps I regret that my
fingers were not soiled by the physical component. I certainly could not object to mutations. I am different from last night to today. How did I slip into this? That garageyness is really working, eh? fire is certainly the theme here. and the color of the saints with the cranberry looks lovely. i am obsessed. I love being irrelevant!
No comments:
Post a Comment