cult of domesticity
blind with
false hair extentions, she only started seeing
what she'd seen on the tv
when she fell asleep against the window.
what happens when
you get tired of following the
light at the end of the tunnel
and fall asleep
against the subway wall?
the oblique set up of the room allowed for a sort of vocal contradiction: a newly polished floor gave the smothered atmosphere the sort of roomy ambience one would experience in the stainless, antiseptic glow of hospital corridors, and yet the occasional leveled steps forced the appearance of awkward squatting when attempting to lounge naturally in conversation.
Naive, tentative discussions on God met the bottle-necked screams for the stereo, which had now been knocked sideways, to be aptly turned in. The latter was reaching a uniform volume, much as their uniformed haircuts both showed the same artful use of disproportion and yet purposeful faux-symmetry, and yet the former seemed only to take this as evidence of a unappreciative, heathen presence.
"'speaking in tongues', when you think about it, is a form of intoxication. I mean, in a room full of people, one person begins to sway, writhe, and scream out whatever fragments possess his mind at that particular time, and before you know it everyone's caught in this fevered sweat of projecting their deepest needs for comfort and assurance to an encouraging, faceless crowd. Not being responsible for your individual action; intoxication."
This sentiment was met with a pleasantly humming sort of silence, then punctuated by several bottles being firmly planted on the technicolor, lacquer-top end table. Disaffected looks rose from the glass lips of the tops like Lazarus from the pit.
someone gets bold,
"The way all things vaginal connotate wholeness, birth, and origin... even the shape.. like a delicate vessel inviting all to imprint themselves with herself, her gift, as if our entire form is simply just folds upon folds of the same questioning substance... God is a woman, and all she wishes is that we'd ask to bathe our feet in her hair and stop worrying so much." no, wait, this seems too one-sided. He retracts,
"God is a man who gave women the temporary ability to produce life only so he could later repossess it. It is under him that all things are made, all people are forced in their own isolated directions, and temporarily connected under the thin veil of ecstasy - each viewing the other with a soul-hungry envy for their unique anatomy. We are made to believe we can reconnect and satisfy both the feminine and masculine." Again, unsure,
"God is..." no one appears to be listening; his eyes grow blank and glossy. The knowledge that no one will hear his triumphant, personal revelation makes said revelation pointless.
The room's noise re-adjusts to the now raised stereo, and the group re-attends to their respective neglected spouses - the nursed bottles of course, not the women.
false hair extentions, she only started seeing
what she'd seen on the tv
when she fell asleep against the window.
what happens when
you get tired of following the
light at the end of the tunnel
and fall asleep
against the subway wall?
the oblique set up of the room allowed for a sort of vocal contradiction: a newly polished floor gave the smothered atmosphere the sort of roomy ambience one would experience in the stainless, antiseptic glow of hospital corridors, and yet the occasional leveled steps forced the appearance of awkward squatting when attempting to lounge naturally in conversation.
Naive, tentative discussions on God met the bottle-necked screams for the stereo, which had now been knocked sideways, to be aptly turned in. The latter was reaching a uniform volume, much as their uniformed haircuts both showed the same artful use of disproportion and yet purposeful faux-symmetry, and yet the former seemed only to take this as evidence of a unappreciative, heathen presence.
"'speaking in tongues', when you think about it, is a form of intoxication. I mean, in a room full of people, one person begins to sway, writhe, and scream out whatever fragments possess his mind at that particular time, and before you know it everyone's caught in this fevered sweat of projecting their deepest needs for comfort and assurance to an encouraging, faceless crowd. Not being responsible for your individual action; intoxication."
This sentiment was met with a pleasantly humming sort of silence, then punctuated by several bottles being firmly planted on the technicolor, lacquer-top end table. Disaffected looks rose from the glass lips of the tops like Lazarus from the pit.
someone gets bold,
"The way all things vaginal connotate wholeness, birth, and origin... even the shape.. like a delicate vessel inviting all to imprint themselves with herself, her gift, as if our entire form is simply just folds upon folds of the same questioning substance... God is a woman, and all she wishes is that we'd ask to bathe our feet in her hair and stop worrying so much." no, wait, this seems too one-sided. He retracts,
"God is a man who gave women the temporary ability to produce life only so he could later repossess it. It is under him that all things are made, all people are forced in their own isolated directions, and temporarily connected under the thin veil of ecstasy - each viewing the other with a soul-hungry envy for their unique anatomy. We are made to believe we can reconnect and satisfy both the feminine and masculine." Again, unsure,
"God is..." no one appears to be listening; his eyes grow blank and glossy. The knowledge that no one will hear his triumphant, personal revelation makes said revelation pointless.
The room's noise re-adjusts to the now raised stereo, and the group re-attends to their respective neglected spouses - the nursed bottles of course, not the women.