(freewrite)
All accounted for illusions, dusty ancients, bullhorn ghosts pacing out by the mire of the wharf, I've seen you all in the steps of a woman I know. She rattles her dressing gowns with a silent timbre reserved for those lone clouds you see over the dessert sometimes, who have forgotten where it was they were to rain, and instead of find release, slowly evaporate.
Gossamer bullies. Barbarian kings whose trousers slip. I too am calling you out. Watch me dance the dance of stupid gay retarded idiot beauty. Watch your bodies break into auroras, bright and clean beckoning all things welcome.
And then the broken men, the rail-wanters, dreaming of steam engines and real damn denim.
Well shit. There goes the night. She has clamored for my sleep and instead of answer I have taken my creature attitudes, spurning sleep in light of light, the light of a bulb, safe-light. It's true: I have for so long been so afraid to really set things on fire, that now I almost forget I can.
I will never wish away the wordless pulpy dogs that gnaw upon my heart sometimes, when far away from her. Without them I might float away. Without them I might be a Buddha, and though I'll admit I respect the man, he did not know this love.
This knight was helped by good weather and a road and a song in his head from the old church where the girls where pretty and the food good, considering the circumstances. And in good time he would visit other towns and there all was well and good. And in good time there came a snip or two of rain, but his hood was well-tailored, and all was well and good. But then came more rain. And then one day his heart burst apart with the applause of many hooved horses, and he died in the middle of the trail thinking of the old church where the girls were pretty and the food good.
This forest loves you.
For nights, I dreamed into the woods of myself, the giant koi floating through the trees, the scarves that spun and swept upon the forest floor, the self-made river-side shrines that wept, and those who came and wept because they could not discover why the shrines wept.
Gossamer bullies. Barbarian kings whose trousers slip. I too am calling you out. Watch me dance the dance of stupid gay retarded idiot beauty. Watch your bodies break into auroras, bright and clean beckoning all things welcome.
And then the broken men, the rail-wanters, dreaming of steam engines and real damn denim.
Well shit. There goes the night. She has clamored for my sleep and instead of answer I have taken my creature attitudes, spurning sleep in light of light, the light of a bulb, safe-light. It's true: I have for so long been so afraid to really set things on fire, that now I almost forget I can.
I will never wish away the wordless pulpy dogs that gnaw upon my heart sometimes, when far away from her. Without them I might float away. Without them I might be a Buddha, and though I'll admit I respect the man, he did not know this love.
This knight was helped by good weather and a road and a song in his head from the old church where the girls where pretty and the food good, considering the circumstances. And in good time he would visit other towns and there all was well and good. And in good time there came a snip or two of rain, but his hood was well-tailored, and all was well and good. But then came more rain. And then one day his heart burst apart with the applause of many hooved horses, and he died in the middle of the trail thinking of the old church where the girls were pretty and the food good.
This forest loves you.
For nights, I dreamed into the woods of myself, the giant koi floating through the trees, the scarves that spun and swept upon the forest floor, the self-made river-side shrines that wept, and those who came and wept because they could not discover why the shrines wept.