bluebird and the sopranos

 hi there bluebird. it's new years day. wake up wake up and suffocate... 

on the highline by the piers, you made me meet. the poet in you. no strictures, no prohibitions.  smelling of sweat. touching your brain, and smelling your bones. your eyes, focused. a deep maroon or a tricky magenta, i do not remember. there was a subdued barbarism on the agility of your flutter. a haven of remorse. a mystic bird. bloodless and hypoxic. you couldn't dream. you couldn't speak. your philosophies of sex and truth were buried in a scoop. in a paper bag of cold, sinewy ribbons. in folds of a transaction. so commercial, so bizarre. all you could say...marymount, i feel pain, a deep resounding ache, so deep so vast so diffuse, i cannot breathe, i cannot dream, i cannot live. you proceeded to re-ascertain the uselessness of idols. plagiarism of the divine. a shrill melancholy of unanswered desire. god is dead, you repeat, seventeen times in a row. and leave the pier. i've not seen you ever since. 

the evolution of pain is a wonder muse of the literate. the raving academic of the clinic. extols the advance of the digital age. a mythography of hormones, and nerves, the chromosomes and the genes. and yet, the origin of the sensation -no one knows. is it physical law binding cell to cell, corroding in a harrow of friction and heat? at which point of contact does pain arise? piercing who? what? why? harrowing ache of what? these constructs of expressionism -so abstract and meaningless. inexplicable yet conventional. prevalent in the geography of the dream catcher and the fatal. the morphine highs. baked analgesics. to think of it, to fix a rootless sensation. no spot to pinpoint. like aroma. the origin of smell, in bonds you say. but what of bonds? wherein lies the origin of this interconversion, from the poly-atom to sensation? and even, of love and lust. of spasm and guilt. of morality and the dream god. of the quaint compositions of wax crafters. of the marble brokers in the museum yards, that spit and choke in the taint of servitude. what engenders the necessity of feeling? if this is the whim of evolutionary game play -why was there a world to produce and repeat? and if all is god. why your god did decide there should be man? and woman? and certain animals? what faith or judgment or form of the creative was necessary to create the universality of the universe? a sudden decision of the apparent creator to self-convince of its capability? how deluded. how derisive. to decide the manifestation of wax tailors and vaginas. the culpability of the testicles and nipple tops. the restrictions and strata on monumental pieces of this acculturated creation. to build by hand another hand of void? to create emptiness and soil? what puissance do we recreate? 

hi there bluebird. it's new years day. wake up wake up and suffocate...