How could I forget about the buckles? Were those suede or faux suede? Either way it didn’t matter. They looked fantastic. Everything I liked was right there. It all seemed plausible. Still remember a sharp intake of breath while
a freakshow grooved on around us. No, I can’t
kid. I was part of that freakshow. Maybe, probably, the most grotesque member of
it. I’m probably going to watch a martial
arts movie later on. Then again, maybe
not. Need to lie down on broadway on the
way home. I need to find meaning in
something, fucking anything! last night,
my entire surroundings were made of creamed corn. Female bodybuilders have
me. Dominque. In the black.
New diana. But the buckles, so
very lovely. And then pushed up against
me. Same two digits. Sorta depressing. Really says a lot about me. How others must view the piece of shit that
is me. Definitely not good. But you see, sitting there so quiet,
everything seemed different. Hard to gauge
the general levels without direct exchange and then immediately so easy and so
sad and so sad how so few have so little to offer. Myself included of course, nothing about me
works properly. Jalapenos in my drink.
Perfume and hair products and creams. The desaturation (not the right word but it’s
the first one which came to mind) is maybe happening. Or, as I alluded to previously (need to burn
chrome again) it is very possible that certain iterations are dying to new ones
can blossom and grow in their place. Stands
to reason. The regrets he is
feeling. Imaginary person. Imaginary person imagining an imaginary person. All constructions. Illusions, elaborate den of fantasy. The pollical discussions. Getting harder and harder to have a
legitimate intelligent conversation. Everyone
– myself included is stupid these days. Recent
trial news. Politics have no place at a
trial. Or do they? The more I learn the less I want to
know. But know, to be, in a dimly lit
room, perhaps a circle (walk with me, through my fanfare), can’t do anything with
alcohol these days, with the current owner of his (not mine, plausible deniability),
heart, to be discussing contemporary matters, even boring ones, and to voice a
reasoned opinion/perspective, and to have that listened to and then responded,
well, that would just be most divine. I’m
losing all the fake memories. I’m losing
all the imagined memories. Of course, I think
as my head goes light, how utterly proper.
This woman’s work. But
adjusted a little. But so
appropriate. So apropos. But none of those things were real. Don’t you see? Dimly, reminded somewhere of the psychic or
was it the painter or both but one of them made it all up but it still came
true anyway. How can that be? Is there a text with a yellow cover that has
the answers? Is there anything
metaphysical about this? All this stuff (The
Right arriving soon as previously mentioned) and all these people are just
going to disappear. And if I am part of
that then hopefully I will never be thought of again and it will just like I never
existed. All the things we should’ve,
all the things we should’ve, all the things we should’ve. That particular world leading right up to a
red pair shoes could be the space where the center of this illusion
resides. Maybe she is there right
now. Maybe in the future. Mansion of
illusion. The art of memory. Somewhere at a fair but I already fucked that
up. Every moment for which I am present
is irreparably fucked up because of my very presence. Even in fantasy, it’s still beyond hope and
repair.
I can’t get anything else accomplished because all the fake moments
are building up and destroying me with their beauty. Surrounding me (going down on), yes, that
would be good accompaniment if I wasn’t so fake
and worthless. That dim room full
of discussion, so wonderful, takes me back to decades prior, the Cassa…
stuff. You know, the opening, the
killing, all that greatness. A realism
to it. That is the realism he wants and
that he never had and never could have but still somehow misses. What would it be, walking along the dirty
street, how the car would smell, getting drunk, getting utterly wasted as is my
wont these days, the ball again, always the ball, heart illusion, illusion at
the very center with countless other illusions built around it or maybe inside of
it I don’t even know anymore. Disagreements,
songs, winter coats, the smell of winter coats and other things which had to be
listed elsewhere because it is all so tender, to tender to just throw
together. But yes, the talk, the chat,
the palaver. Something that maybe could
be real, feels celestial, deep inside, swimming inside, dying inside, oh please
let me die inside, I just want to die inside where it is so deep and dark, to die
in sweetest sin but know this too is only fantasy and there is nothing real
anywhere except I suppose some awful sense of desperation and walls made out of
fantasy, broken dreams that never could be earned. He just wanted to run away. And here again it starts with a city, grey
city, chilly, beautiful lights, lovely in the presence of…and winter coats (and
why don’t things have any meaning behind them and who the hell should he even
ask about that) and taxi’s and walks stores and things and coffee and booze and
talking and talking and talking and there is some reality such as this
somewhere, right? Maybe there is some reality somewhere where he is happy but
this cannot be true because I cannot fathom any reality anywhere where I deserve
to be happy and where I am not an utterly useless sack of shit. Yet, he will grant himself this iteration for
a while and there is warmth in the cold and an honest lovely smile and a tender
comfort and oh God but just being is so ruinous that I just want to fucking
destroy that because it makes me sick how fucking needy and ugly and useless
and awful I am!!!
Final dwindling days, not sure which half that should go
into.
