(no subject)
Bitterness is being bent at the knees, with nary a prayer escaping pursed lips. Tearfall ferries her mistress satellites - It's her confidence - its earthbeams and microphone fins, its tarantula detachment, its synaptic embolism of Sinus Venosus. Hers is the lexis where sex is and was never. Stellar messages furrred in snow words: celestial copse: Star Dwarves. She is her own mistress satellite upon which teethes something something, et cetera, et al, mumble mumbl dgjjday the nimbus plait of scissoring winds, nettling Costellos, mobjobs, enlarged harmonies and so on and so forth. When she dives upon the earth it's like the right song at the right time at the right and pliable moment, Her Super Replier, a gift of infinity. They would seek her: if only, to beat her, to bind her, absolve her, and leave her; there in the soft, angry hallway, escape stitched in its niches, motherly in its mangling, downy in its ebonies. It is a dark as unblithely absenses of light detains even the surest of elves, darting a saffron glimpse only now and then, to reassure a certain swampy cold... Quick, say something clever, bewitching, useful, and full. You know you're aging when the blasphemies lose their throat-catching nausea, are desensitized, thus, more easily digested. I'm not sure how convincing a case Jesus makes for himself, but if I hear one more remark or adult swim-type effigy, I'll _____________. Say something redeeming. Say you don't feel betrayed. But I do... .... .... It is a sullen heart housed with an archipelago of voices melanged, parasitic in persuasion, ulcerating an acidic, swollen tongue. True, none of what was said takes on meaning, becomes literal. This is all a pretension, crafted by fingers beguiled, but a heart so-trodden must make due with what spoils Ego has afforded her. I am shrouded these days, exceedingly cryptic. But if bitterness is being brought to your knees, and bristling with wounded pride, boasting wounds, and chillblain sensations, then the trial of my anjou pear is the masticated fruit I must feed from.
I remember when a flair of the poetic lent great expression to the greater good of one's soul, rather than darken it... She has her hips like missiles, and his a heat-seeking... oh stop.... Her affection is a man of the cloth and knows the WAY OF THE GUN.
When a compromising vision grows moreso abstract and aphasis, when the skirts are upsetting, and walls are unclawable, clouds unbearable - when life just sucks - take rest in the fact that 'you destroy everything you touch,' that 'the roots that sleep beneath your feet' are 'something vague' and unreliable and your 'calendar will always hang itself,' that 'this is your december this is my time of the year this is my december this is all so clear this is my december this is my snow covered home this is my december this is me alone...' And either Transgender yourself or just... DANSE MACABRE, BE, a Maneater, 'make you work hard Make you spend hard Make you want all, of her love. She's a Maneater make you buy cars make you cut cards make you fall real hard in love...'
[unfinished hack job but hey, adventures in humility]
