you raced past the the pulley discs and wire mesh to knock at the door. thump. thud. smash. i did not look at you, focusing on the trans-sexual couple fondling each other across the street. occasionally glancing at the tan asian man, waving at a lamp post, muttering, snorting, and giggling, i developed a minute impatience. adjusted my sleeves, drank a bond, some helium gin and gestured to the pink column, a quiescence of fall. pointing to an ex-catholic, wriggling in sin, i thought of Smetana, burlesques and oil. michael is your parent name. short, crisp and befitting the square of your jaws. you glanced at me, walked through the studio doors, and sat by my yoga mat. your legs spread in acute angles, your boots shaven and polished, your mustache in perm, yourself in a cocoon of shiny canine leather. a characteristic droop of your white eyelids, fidgety by the edge, rotund in the sink, bury in obsolete an oceanic eye. so achingly blue, longingly gazed, pulsatile in the flip-reality of dilation, contraction and a numbness. the reflection of my face in the concavity of your lens, made me dizzy inside. projecting to the limbic, the imagery of days i cried with lust, dissatisfaction and powerlessness.
when we walked to the diner, after an awkward paranoia, like a mistaken phenomenology gyrating in the laminate of your dead venules, you sat by the wall, cushioned in a corner, hidden from your ex-fucker. you flirted a little, then became silent. did it remind you of something? did you feel numb? you stared at your glass for forty seven seconds and said what helped me live at the time of suicide was the story of Alexander the Great. an amateur historian with a past of prostitution, journalism and the ivy league, you sounded confident and nervous. reminiscing your lay off, a latent escort and your love for harnesses, you peered into my thoughts and said it's an evolutionary fuck-up. you seemed unclear, eating pasta, and i asked to elaborate. at 47, to feel young, you find your draw. you dread the passage of age, i figure, and to re-live your loss you engage in a volley of words, in a secrecy of act and benefit of lust. manipulation of desire to the extraordinary, moral bends, self-lulled and political in the lability of a compass. is there a cap on desire? no, i cried. it feels liberating to love, like Alexander the Great, War soldiers and broken rivulets.
what resonated in my mind, after you swung aside, was your interpolation. what is the worst of outcomes? you die. death from a heartache, wrapped in the blossom of pan-celestials and hormones, in a brown paper suicide, is a misery of time, evolution of man, begetting of communication. rattled with pixels and voxels, appetite and vogue, conundrum and cretinism, this world of yearning, this love of yarns, explained in the socialism of Darwin, paradox and genetics. before you left, you said to me, Alexander always showed gratitude.
when we walked to the diner, after an awkward paranoia, like a mistaken phenomenology gyrating in the laminate of your dead venules, you sat by the wall, cushioned in a corner, hidden from your ex-fucker. you flirted a little, then became silent. did it remind you of something? did you feel numb? you stared at your glass for forty seven seconds and said what helped me live at the time of suicide was the story of Alexander the Great. an amateur historian with a past of prostitution, journalism and the ivy league, you sounded confident and nervous. reminiscing your lay off, a latent escort and your love for harnesses, you peered into my thoughts and said it's an evolutionary fuck-up. you seemed unclear, eating pasta, and i asked to elaborate. at 47, to feel young, you find your draw. you dread the passage of age, i figure, and to re-live your loss you engage in a volley of words, in a secrecy of act and benefit of lust. manipulation of desire to the extraordinary, moral bends, self-lulled and political in the lability of a compass. is there a cap on desire? no, i cried. it feels liberating to love, like Alexander the Great, War soldiers and broken rivulets.
what resonated in my mind, after you swung aside, was your interpolation. what is the worst of outcomes? you die. death from a heartache, wrapped in the blossom of pan-celestials and hormones, in a brown paper suicide, is a misery of time, evolution of man, begetting of communication. rattled with pixels and voxels, appetite and vogue, conundrum and cretinism, this world of yearning, this love of yarns, explained in the socialism of Darwin, paradox and genetics. before you left, you said to me, Alexander always showed gratitude.
No comments:
Post a Comment