reading Kerouac put me in a mood. blue beats and trumpets and monographs, somehow, knotting around the diameter of a personal phrenology. got tangled up in words, and songs, and footprints of your senseless politics. of a creativity, personalized and rhapsodized like the clitoral, the littoral, graphic, Austen-esque, or explosive imagery of blood burlesques reeling and streaming in the cadence of hymns. observing a pedophile, loving a boy, telling him spread your legs for daddy. in a quiescent submission, in a lust-hungry energy, he squeals in delight to charm daddy. saying to a wood wall, and a cloud of steam, and the straight-acting band, i love you daddy. salivating and craving the voyeurism, the exhibit of naked age, the harmony of breaths on genteel glass, the crackle of lubricant, the network of rims, the duets of soap, the ballet dolls of dead chemicals, hormonally operatic, chaotic in shuffles, disheveled and liberating to the dead sexual, swollen in the tingle of orgasm, lust and tear. son, i love your cunt, your boy vagina. this inter-mixing of gender, biology and chemical nurture, this lullaby of verse and cross-contradictions, gave you the pleasure of a ripped marriage. your wife away, the child you sought. re-living the fantasy in the confines of amber, hissing in dissonance, hiding in smiles. tomorrow, you will go back to work, son. and no one will ever know.
to remind myself, the mythology of the anonymous. the manner of deceit, dubiousness and playmate of curtain falls, of red lies and accountability. to re-think the truth of my relational, i am grateful for the war songs, to historicize and preserve, to immortalize and re-flesh the skeleton of dandelions, the sway of bliss, the dramatics of loss, the aroma of splits, the bible of trust, the discourse of tears, the parable of proofs, the miseries and joys of loveliness. to your anatomy, i shiver in the spasm of time warps, and extra-spatials. in the charm of honeycombs, and the vagary of your boyhoods, the topography of lust, you are the primary primal, the tertiary pedigree, the parallax of numbers.
to remind myself, the mythology of the anonymous. the manner of deceit, dubiousness and playmate of curtain falls, of red lies and accountability. to re-think the truth of my relational, i am grateful for the war songs, to historicize and preserve, to immortalize and re-flesh the skeleton of dandelions, the sway of bliss, the dramatics of loss, the aroma of splits, the bible of trust, the discourse of tears, the parable of proofs, the miseries and joys of loveliness. to your anatomy, i shiver in the spasm of time warps, and extra-spatials. in the charm of honeycombs, and the vagary of your boyhoods, the topography of lust, you are the primary primal, the tertiary pedigree, the parallax of numbers.
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