poppy bean. it's christmas time. the red and ash. and green and mist. and truffle bake and merry mix are laced and curled in whirls of swirls. the fairy tales of snow and gin. on table tops and mistletoes. you kiss the ice. uncurl your smell. a delicate aroma wafts through the rooms of bleeding alabaster. you loosen your grip of the conscious hegemony of mind chronicles. engaged in piercings, chelates and stars of brandings. your modified body: a missing breast, a missing flood of bouncing testicles. i want you to come over and sit by me. and tell me your motivations for eating hair, combing your brows, and painting elevators. tell me why you add red pepper flakes to your cappuccino cups. why you photograph yourself, pissing on art and old vinyl records. and wear a pendant of blades and a strip of brown varnished leather. why you sit by the stairwell and count your tear drops. your normalcy and muse on existentialism horrify my bones. they make me cringe and cry and scratch my nipples with long sticks of wax crayons. i want to talk to you about the gossip aunt on the alleyway, who died last week of pneumonia. and her paintings of Eros, she dedicated to the birds.
you should consider the anarchist, poppy bean. the rebel new yorker. who fought to strive and play, with delicacy a home-building phenomenon. to migrate and stall. move a few feet, and pause. and then you learn to whisper first. and then to alphabetize and then to fetishize and then to revolt. to vociferate and explicate to the highest authority your value and worth. your bastard roots mean nothing in this whirlwind of the cut throat. no one cares your handicap or the slanders of your oddities. no one believes in the circuitry of your pleas and intentions if you cannot weigh your worth, in value and assets and paper seals. if you say, ballacave, i am a happy soul... they will question your happiness. what have you done to display this happiness? why will i believe, you are at peace. why will i believe you are happy. at which juncture of this living spiral do you intersect a satiety with happiness? is it the seed of vitality, your continuum of genomic integrity that brings you partial joy? or a make-believe philanthropy; this is what i should? on your emotionality compass, you tell yourself, baby pea, others are happy...come on be happy yourself...come on. and yet, what makes you think the others are happy, i do not know. what makes you contend is an allegory you will answer yourself. but the answer each time, will be a different one. you know why? here's the simple premise. time is a variable. not a constant. if life depends on time, can you deduce that life is variable? and if life is variable, can you go back and find the same answer each time? happiness differs, baby pea. for the second, tell yourself, the firmness of my anatomy is real. the mind is a dot, a flicker.
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