(no subject)
I can feel it resting in my bones; the knowledge, pure and bitter and slithering into my cells with sharp corners and suction cup sides. An infection of truth or some substitute reality of it because we’re too young to remember what real feels like. Plastic and radio waves tangled in my hair, like ten twenty thirty years ago minus you and I. It’s like taking pictures that won’t come out, at the beach finding hidden chemical spills; all in our brains and seeping into the bloodstreams and collecting in our hearts. The doctors that operate have certificates and disinfectants with names that stick on the tongue, but go home to tv dinners and pretend to know nothing about this kind of heart disease.
It’s midday, sitting staring at the screen and being so goddamn separate, miles and moments forming walls that take thousands of gallons of blood pumping in our veins and millions of syllables to crumble. Like yesterday, but in Technicolor. Sudden turns and stops while running red lights in my mind, moving to different roads and sideways streets. It’s like screaming in a movie theatre.
And finding an excuse in being human will always be second best; the back up plan in case the plane wrecks or the coffee spills or your daughter does drugs in back alleyways with boys who teach her about life. It’s not about the songs or the words anymore. The telephone wires are weakening and you’re cracking up. When they fall to the ground the sparks will dance with the air and those molecules will have the sharpest truths of all.
I can feel it resting in my bones; building up, knowledge upon knowledge. And soon, it will be too heavy for me to move.
It’s midday, sitting staring at the screen and being so goddamn separate, miles and moments forming walls that take thousands of gallons of blood pumping in our veins and millions of syllables to crumble. Like yesterday, but in Technicolor. Sudden turns and stops while running red lights in my mind, moving to different roads and sideways streets. It’s like screaming in a movie theatre.
And finding an excuse in being human will always be second best; the back up plan in case the plane wrecks or the coffee spills or your daughter does drugs in back alleyways with boys who teach her about life. It’s not about the songs or the words anymore. The telephone wires are weakening and you’re cracking up. When they fall to the ground the sparks will dance with the air and those molecules will have the sharpest truths of all.
I can feel it resting in my bones; building up, knowledge upon knowledge. And soon, it will be too heavy for me to move.