I realized early on today (which is now likely
yesterday) that I truly am the tomato based man. Everything’s blurry again. So rare for me to focus on the feeling
afterward in terms of words. Strong feelings
of emptiness. All my fault of
course. Re-purchases. What had me today? Of course it was the hunt for justice. In pastels.
And fishnet pantyhose. Always gets
me in the end. It’s not a question of willpower
or all the other great phrases we throw out to cover the simple fact that we
are weak and foul. Sorry, I won’t
include anyone else. I am weak and
foul. I am the tomato based man (reminds
me a bit of the words of a great great great man who once professed in one of
my most cherished works that he is Ramona A. Stone. Which reminds me that I’ve been listening to
Iggy Pop’s 1981 album Party a lot these past few days and have been loving
it. I love Pop. I also love the song All the Lovers and it’s
a regular part of the…after buying the…which makes the heart race. I also love indigo. And the alien). Yes, in those early hours all I wanted to do
was watch The Vampire and the Ballerina, one of the sexiest movies I’ve ever
seen. I can remember the sweaty summer
days.
And of course this very morning I was also struggling
with a lack of language knowledge. For candy
again. Lovely new obsession and
necessary muse. Exactly what I… hard to believe…. And across various platforms I could not be
more blissfully disconnected and reveling in sin. Transmitting across oceans. The pleasure arrives much later one. it originates in a spell and then traverses
time to arrive at my fingertips. I’m so
full of shit. What to comment? What to say?
There’s no protocol. The ankle on
the tattoo. “my father ran the prison.” Apropos of nothing: I do so love the music of
Scott Walker. Ah that close proximity of
Lodger to Nite Flights and then again with Outside to Tilt. All so necessary. More boiling heat. And burning rubber and this music in the sun
machine and by nightfall I was travelling that familiar road with the mystery
man. No, I am falling for candy
now. Not now, been that way for a very
long while. Branching off that first
paragraph I need to read a bit more about Ivan as he contributed such a strong
and memorable number. I’ll always
remember buying ink and paper in the morning and wanting to die (but in a
depressing way). And then learning you
had moved on. And I didn’t even know. But that morning it was the only composition
which made me feel good. And then your
iteration was beautiful. And now wanting
to die under candy’s gaze. Wanting to
die under the gaze of…black and white recently and pastel blue earlier one, sweet
bouquet, if only I could discern everything inside, to die under your gaze,
sweetest sin.
And what really killed it. Hosiery again. And luchadoras. Ah luchadoras, what has kept me willfully
enslaved for a lifetime. Now in white
and in black. Justice in white. Seen before in the aforementioned pastels;
teal and lavender, black turned to gold on top.
Justice. Hunter. Right to the middle. Please afterward rest your feet on me, my
face. Let me breath in so deep. Berate please. Please berate. On a deeper level I am truly awful. Oh, I need to let it all out but don’t know
how. I am ugly and repulsive and a
failure. A real classic piece of
shit. My words fail me. understand, words don’t fail me, MY words
fail me. fucking idiot. That is me.
dumb fucking piece of shit. I looked
up and saw the Miles Davis album In a Silent Way was right there. I do so love
that album. I need to learn more, so
much still escapes my understanding. Pestilence
in the air as the visual representation of my soul.
Ah, just a glance.
I see what happened now. Mired in
the corruption el fin del dia. Not even
necessary that little lapse right there.
lovely accented words somewhere through the waves. Ah, the wonders of technology; inked captured
through the plastic and then fingered while rubber burned and it was wrong at
first but this most direct of signs was ignored for desire of sin and so it was
tried again and reached and afterward the number 9 summed it all up. Kept going and going and wouldn’t it be nice
if it had simply been left to continue. In
person. it was the phrasing of
course. Through this I could almost
finally picture that lovely smile. Why so
much uncertainty? Don’t you understand. The magnificence. Laughter while discussing the concrete. We do it all for the concrete. Even if you can never walk on it. We can look at the concrete. It will happen. Everything changed, everything beautiful. Perfect word.
What the hell is wrong with me. acknowledgement
by a big steaming pile of garbage hahaha!
On a related noted I’m something of a big steaming pile of shit. It was the transparency again, up above. Arms. The
familiarity. Coupled with the black and
white. Seen through the…coming from soda…never
realized the elegant simplicity of venetian.
It’s difficult to believe. And then
this one, descending but always so so so high above merged with justice, with
pastels, the black turned to gold was just the right approximation and it all
merged and it was all corruption and sin and evil and it was allowed to be
released and then there was only emptiness which is all there ever is and all
there ever will be.
Forgot about that photo yesterday of the Little
Star. The most pretty. But also the most…. Fell deeply in love all over again.
Then I realized, if only I worked in a gas station I
would understand.
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