(no subject)
Perfect teeth and ruby lips smear above her shapely hips
like clouds refracting the red sun, receding behind her desperate eyes.
All this is secondary, and I know that. These groins and their tugging to meet and to know and to fuck and to show -- they are hormone-pumping distractions clouding my mind's vision and my day's ambition. I know full well that I could accomplish much more of my life's potential in focused solitude than in this endless parade of fruitless dinners and ham-handedly distributed rusty charms, trying to hock my genetics to the highest bidder, to any bidder. My purpose here extends beyond babies shitting on themselves, and I say that not in an arrogant way, but with a genuine sense of self-appraisal. I have things I must do, things I am intended to do, before expiring or retiring from physicality. Yet, that approaching finality should not be considered the deadline for those works, and I must remind myself of that. And while, sure, I feel my groinal clock ticking, its hand pointing up straight and tall, as if to scream "It's time! Right now!" That clock hand, too, begins its descent as the window of my virility begins closing.
Formless knowing watches, my frustrated muse, for whom I no longer translate into form.
But even while I have abandoned you, please do not abandon me, for we serve the same sunrise.
In spite of my forgetting and disorder, I wish to carry your words across and honor them.
Too much thought devoted to social ties of a lateral type -- a horizon of faces to which one could easily devote a lifetime in sifting and rummaging. Notwithstanding the most meaningful potentials afforded by romantic relationships, the rewards of the flesh are short-lived and, ultimately, detract from the greater supernal unions of solitary ascent.
like clouds refracting the red sun, receding behind her desperate eyes.
All this is secondary, and I know that. These groins and their tugging to meet and to know and to fuck and to show -- they are hormone-pumping distractions clouding my mind's vision and my day's ambition. I know full well that I could accomplish much more of my life's potential in focused solitude than in this endless parade of fruitless dinners and ham-handedly distributed rusty charms, trying to hock my genetics to the highest bidder, to any bidder. My purpose here extends beyond babies shitting on themselves, and I say that not in an arrogant way, but with a genuine sense of self-appraisal. I have things I must do, things I am intended to do, before expiring or retiring from physicality. Yet, that approaching finality should not be considered the deadline for those works, and I must remind myself of that. And while, sure, I feel my groinal clock ticking, its hand pointing up straight and tall, as if to scream "It's time! Right now!" That clock hand, too, begins its descent as the window of my virility begins closing.
Formless knowing watches, my frustrated muse, for whom I no longer translate into form.
But even while I have abandoned you, please do not abandon me, for we serve the same sunrise.
In spite of my forgetting and disorder, I wish to carry your words across and honor them.
Too much thought devoted to social ties of a lateral type -- a horizon of faces to which one could easily devote a lifetime in sifting and rummaging. Notwithstanding the most meaningful potentials afforded by romantic relationships, the rewards of the flesh are short-lived and, ultimately, detract from the greater supernal unions of solitary ascent.