reflections and projections/text collage vol. II
"Maybe it is not wickedness, after all, that they want. Maybe it is only the elimination of the poisons in the body, the consequences of it all. "
From a thin and damp Chicago evening in August: I ran in high company but I'm not free, I know I am bound here in captivity. Behind the calm of his silver mask, the skeletal alien clung and watched - but everything here calls for solitude. I have grafted this fragile life - the thirst, the venom of the peacock in the cage - like a sad shooting star. She turns the volume on the radio up and hums along with the song for a minute and I'm thinking I should turn my hungers. It's a grainy film of black and white, flickery silver film no matter how she tries to cover a little more/I have tried to improve my life, I have fought (is something the matter?). I must have been on Europa for at least 1,000 years (the earth in tiny whirls) and you hate everyone/well that's not true I just hate all these obnoxious, extroverted pseudo bohemian art school... The next morning (my brain) was still open and seemed to be forming a nice crust. I moved up to the sidewalk and cut across to the alley and as soon as they were out there's somebody calling "who's we?" We both turned and stared down the alley. Nothing. I felt very old, very soft and moved out into the ice water. Before the sea of disasters, noon explodes in the darkness of its strength; break off in someone's laughter, you can tell right there that it's like climbing into the prize ring: you should feel you owed them something or you shouldn't be in there.
but it all unravels in such a timely/untimely fashion: peeling away all these layers of my subconscious just like mountains of patterned paper and every little electric moment adds up to way more than all your super-mondo-video-game-player-3000X with the convertible top and turquoise velor custom nameplating deluxe. With eyes that are really petals and see all the innate humor in this - radios buzz about credit card debt and then goes straight to hybrid cars. It comes to me in fragments - broken glass and big black chunks - but there will never be a time more opportune to stop all this Do you get how I feel? Do you identify in some way or are you rejecting me? because I go down these roads quietly too often. Yet she just stands in one place, staring up at the TV's, maybe using two fingers to pinch the skin under her jaw, pull it tight, and let go. All this old, black ooze keeps leaking out while purring in sleep repeating reels with an aura of doom. (What does that even mean?) He has been abandoned many times, left to die in cold city alleys, in hot noon vacant lots, pottery shards, nettles, crumbled mud walls. And although days pass slow now, he has cried for help in vain many times, and my ghost still bangs on the rooftop. It's really intense... it's great... but why'd we have to run the whole way?, well you know, the right time to leave is the minute that you think about it... And I hope that someone gives me a job. And I hope that I have more good days than bad days. That I learn to say this glass is half full, it is not half empty. And to hell with my half full glass - I want a FULL full glass, I want it overflowing. And I want to feel joy like I did that one summer day for ten minutes right before I decided life was horrible and I went crazy. I want to recapture the feeling of liking to be alive. She could stop it, but what if she did?
"Is it heavy thinking without liver trouble they want? Tobacco art without lung cancer? Marijuana without garbage? Do they want to sow seeds without reaping its harvest? It does not work that way -- no more than apples can be plucked from grasshoppers, or grapes bottled from thistles."
From a thin and damp Chicago evening in August: I ran in high company but I'm not free, I know I am bound here in captivity. Behind the calm of his silver mask, the skeletal alien clung and watched - but everything here calls for solitude. I have grafted this fragile life - the thirst, the venom of the peacock in the cage - like a sad shooting star. She turns the volume on the radio up and hums along with the song for a minute and I'm thinking I should turn my hungers. It's a grainy film of black and white, flickery silver film no matter how she tries to cover a little more/I have tried to improve my life, I have fought (is something the matter?). I must have been on Europa for at least 1,000 years (the earth in tiny whirls) and you hate everyone/well that's not true I just hate all these obnoxious, extroverted pseudo bohemian art school... The next morning (my brain) was still open and seemed to be forming a nice crust. I moved up to the sidewalk and cut across to the alley and as soon as they were out there's somebody calling "who's we?" We both turned and stared down the alley. Nothing. I felt very old, very soft and moved out into the ice water. Before the sea of disasters, noon explodes in the darkness of its strength; break off in someone's laughter, you can tell right there that it's like climbing into the prize ring: you should feel you owed them something or you shouldn't be in there.
but it all unravels in such a timely/untimely fashion: peeling away all these layers of my subconscious just like mountains of patterned paper and every little electric moment adds up to way more than all your super-mondo-video-game-player-3000X with the convertible top and turquoise velor custom nameplating deluxe. With eyes that are really petals and see all the innate humor in this - radios buzz about credit card debt and then goes straight to hybrid cars. It comes to me in fragments - broken glass and big black chunks - but there will never be a time more opportune to stop all this Do you get how I feel? Do you identify in some way or are you rejecting me? because I go down these roads quietly too often. Yet she just stands in one place, staring up at the TV's, maybe using two fingers to pinch the skin under her jaw, pull it tight, and let go. All this old, black ooze keeps leaking out while purring in sleep repeating reels with an aura of doom. (What does that even mean?) He has been abandoned many times, left to die in cold city alleys, in hot noon vacant lots, pottery shards, nettles, crumbled mud walls. And although days pass slow now, he has cried for help in vain many times, and my ghost still bangs on the rooftop. It's really intense... it's great... but why'd we have to run the whole way?, well you know, the right time to leave is the minute that you think about it... And I hope that someone gives me a job. And I hope that I have more good days than bad days. That I learn to say this glass is half full, it is not half empty. And to hell with my half full glass - I want a FULL full glass, I want it overflowing. And I want to feel joy like I did that one summer day for ten minutes right before I decided life was horrible and I went crazy. I want to recapture the feeling of liking to be alive. She could stop it, but what if she did?
"Is it heavy thinking without liver trouble they want? Tobacco art without lung cancer? Marijuana without garbage? Do they want to sow seeds without reaping its harvest? It does not work that way -- no more than apples can be plucked from grasshoppers, or grapes bottled from thistles."