(no subject)
why are we all growing our hair out? Something to spread out and get entangled in the odd bits of leaves, little alcoves enough to shed metal casings down to brittle electronic parts.
I don't understand how you can sleep next to someone until your bodies become all lost expanses of skin like arrid deserts then expect to conjure up the last bits of tropical moisture. People's faces are falling off, and even come well dressed to embrace the ritual.
Complete strangers fuck each other and recoil into the comfort of someone who doesn't know the spots that are still burnt-ash sore from before. How to weedle thumbs under that soft peach skin until it breaks its pulp to the surface. Somewhere between where the cigarettes get put out and the burning black temporary eye makeup gets left by the singing circles. We used to stretch our infant arms out to complete cirlces in wide arcs around our legs, and now the two shapes meet and can't escape from their own infatutation with each other. A circle is only infinite until it meets another circle. That's when you razor in the extra amphetamines into brittle lines representing order, representing marching lines of smaller and smaller molecules, representing the breakdown of emotion inside your head that comes down to God and garbage.
We should be cutting out the warm regards on the insides of our stomachs.
we should be piercing more holes through wet wire electric fences and foam-tipped concrete walls.
We shouldn't believe we're held in by anything except for the fluid we bath ourselves in, except for the easy emotions that flourish off our tongue and we lap it off the ground like wine.
The self expression that comes only in defense, like a marbled scar comes after an unfortunate uncontrol of the hands, slipping while they cut distinctive features into sculpture block.
Like women get beat, men cut off their own wings, and we both keep each other in a lesser state we can watch over. There is no mortal coil, its more of an mesh nylon you don't feel slithering against your skin until its tight across your chest. We used to live off the land, and now we eat artificial regurgitations of seasick sailors lost in the webbed light of dust through fishnets.
I don't understand how you can sleep next to someone until your bodies become all lost expanses of skin like arrid deserts then expect to conjure up the last bits of tropical moisture. People's faces are falling off, and even come well dressed to embrace the ritual.
Complete strangers fuck each other and recoil into the comfort of someone who doesn't know the spots that are still burnt-ash sore from before. How to weedle thumbs under that soft peach skin until it breaks its pulp to the surface. Somewhere between where the cigarettes get put out and the burning black temporary eye makeup gets left by the singing circles. We used to stretch our infant arms out to complete cirlces in wide arcs around our legs, and now the two shapes meet and can't escape from their own infatutation with each other. A circle is only infinite until it meets another circle. That's when you razor in the extra amphetamines into brittle lines representing order, representing marching lines of smaller and smaller molecules, representing the breakdown of emotion inside your head that comes down to God and garbage.
We should be cutting out the warm regards on the insides of our stomachs.
we should be piercing more holes through wet wire electric fences and foam-tipped concrete walls.
We shouldn't believe we're held in by anything except for the fluid we bath ourselves in, except for the easy emotions that flourish off our tongue and we lap it off the ground like wine.
The self expression that comes only in defense, like a marbled scar comes after an unfortunate uncontrol of the hands, slipping while they cut distinctive features into sculpture block.
Like women get beat, men cut off their own wings, and we both keep each other in a lesser state we can watch over. There is no mortal coil, its more of an mesh nylon you don't feel slithering against your skin until its tight across your chest. We used to live off the land, and now we eat artificial regurgitations of seasick sailors lost in the webbed light of dust through fishnets.