I can't stop, I can't stop, I can't stop running from(towards) the golden idols.
There were a thousand light bulbs suspended around us in their own empty, idiosyncratic motions, left from some careless hands’ rotation. They appeared to be nervously moving in their own circles, like some bastardized version of the solar system, somewhere we could finally find ourselves in without a battery acid-like guilt.
I could see a gasoline reflection in your eyes as you reached out to touch it, the morning star, the blinds burning down in the morning, and wondered how much more it would take to make you content. To show you I had no fear of the brightest point of continueing light, I took the small and arrogantly resilient crystal and placed it just within my lips. Not that the fiberglass didn’t gently graze my gums to dialate my blood vessels and allow more light inside of myself, but I quickly found I couldn’t spill enough of its purity out of my own mouth to not resembling the vomiting motion I was making on my knees.
I felt like there was a higher power attempting to speak through me, but I was a flawed instrument, a damaged vessel without the proper acoustics. Her face made a distorted and animalistic sign like somehow there was another skin underneath the one I’d grown accustomed to and her true expressions were actually desperately trying to shed the empty exterior trapping its one true voice, yet failing on some level.
She backed the crest of her back into the banister, but just coyly enough as to leave empty space nearly the size of a full grown man to be left between us.
Her lips ease, and as a result she slips, “you know, you really are too human. Not that you aren’t made of skin, intestines, all those extraneous things, but you just don’t have the ability to be inhuman for only a second.” Drawing her fingers back to her lips, she is either desperately desiring a cigarette, chap stick, or some sort of drugged fellatio.
In a way it made sense. I had been drawing crude faces on cardboard boxes in my abandoned apartment for days on end, attempting to hold a politically-balanced congress on the inhumane treatment of circus animals while nervously rocking myself to sleep on an cool tile floor. I had been eating too many carbohydrates and chewing on broken pieces of porcelain until my mouth looked like a leveled set of irregular ribs. I had left too many questions inside my head answered by the vapidness that had taken residence there like a coiled python.
“that’s completely untrue,” I said with an all too uncertain surety, “I made that completely faux-modernist mobile the other day., the one with the geometric shapes chasing each other. A complete departure.“
What I thought was a big sign of my acknowledgement of an age where men fucked robots and humans were conceived in giant tanks of viscuous, cornmeal substance. It didn’t impress her.
I could see a gasoline reflection in your eyes as you reached out to touch it, the morning star, the blinds burning down in the morning, and wondered how much more it would take to make you content. To show you I had no fear of the brightest point of continueing light, I took the small and arrogantly resilient crystal and placed it just within my lips. Not that the fiberglass didn’t gently graze my gums to dialate my blood vessels and allow more light inside of myself, but I quickly found I couldn’t spill enough of its purity out of my own mouth to not resembling the vomiting motion I was making on my knees.
I felt like there was a higher power attempting to speak through me, but I was a flawed instrument, a damaged vessel without the proper acoustics. Her face made a distorted and animalistic sign like somehow there was another skin underneath the one I’d grown accustomed to and her true expressions were actually desperately trying to shed the empty exterior trapping its one true voice, yet failing on some level.
She backed the crest of her back into the banister, but just coyly enough as to leave empty space nearly the size of a full grown man to be left between us.
Her lips ease, and as a result she slips, “you know, you really are too human. Not that you aren’t made of skin, intestines, all those extraneous things, but you just don’t have the ability to be inhuman for only a second.” Drawing her fingers back to her lips, she is either desperately desiring a cigarette, chap stick, or some sort of drugged fellatio.
In a way it made sense. I had been drawing crude faces on cardboard boxes in my abandoned apartment for days on end, attempting to hold a politically-balanced congress on the inhumane treatment of circus animals while nervously rocking myself to sleep on an cool tile floor. I had been eating too many carbohydrates and chewing on broken pieces of porcelain until my mouth looked like a leveled set of irregular ribs. I had left too many questions inside my head answered by the vapidness that had taken residence there like a coiled python.
“that’s completely untrue,” I said with an all too uncertain surety, “I made that completely faux-modernist mobile the other day., the one with the geometric shapes chasing each other. A complete departure.“
What I thought was a big sign of my acknowledgement of an age where men fucked robots and humans were conceived in giant tanks of viscuous, cornmeal substance. It didn’t impress her.