Caribbean Gorillas
"The first love disappears, but never goes. That ache becomes reconciliation.
But then--for example, I drank: but young people don't really drink, they swallow, producing instant piss. It's only later that the liquid you pour down your throat backs up.
Ah, then--you walk, you weep, you vomit--you stink; your prick rises up, and you jerk it off (if thine hand offend thee!), demons drag you off to sleep, you shudder awake. You shit and shower and shave. You wonder. You get it together, and you make the scene. You tell little brother how everything's cool. He says, for true? And he's watching you."
I'm not quite sure. There's some kind of bruising edge in finality and limit that just seems to scratch your retinas. Then you find in your minds eye a different reflection of the world and it's implicit and subtle encroachments on what you call sacred and profane. You think you can shelter yourself, you want to starve yourself on the satisfying destiny of independence, but it is never more real than a subjective phantom--one that only you can really see and that you can only hear. But then again, who are we to doubt the presence of phantoms amongst this purlieu of doubt and shifting potential?
Is there anything malignantly real in this insatiable hoicking around of subjective reality and its respective comportment, transmission and manifold? I suspect that the discovery of an answer is no sturdy footing, but there rests a much more feasible potential in staggering the labyrinth. That's just me, though.
What do you think?
But then--for example, I drank: but young people don't really drink, they swallow, producing instant piss. It's only later that the liquid you pour down your throat backs up.
Ah, then--you walk, you weep, you vomit--you stink; your prick rises up, and you jerk it off (if thine hand offend thee!), demons drag you off to sleep, you shudder awake. You shit and shower and shave. You wonder. You get it together, and you make the scene. You tell little brother how everything's cool. He says, for true? And he's watching you."
I'm not quite sure. There's some kind of bruising edge in finality and limit that just seems to scratch your retinas. Then you find in your minds eye a different reflection of the world and it's implicit and subtle encroachments on what you call sacred and profane. You think you can shelter yourself, you want to starve yourself on the satisfying destiny of independence, but it is never more real than a subjective phantom--one that only you can really see and that you can only hear. But then again, who are we to doubt the presence of phantoms amongst this purlieu of doubt and shifting potential?
Is there anything malignantly real in this insatiable hoicking around of subjective reality and its respective comportment, transmission and manifold? I suspect that the discovery of an answer is no sturdy footing, but there rests a much more feasible potential in staggering the labyrinth. That's just me, though.
What do you think?