morte a venezia, e altri posti
It wasn't pure coincidence that the topic of tangibility has found its way to me.
The way you long for physicality, the way i reject it, the way the pink wound throbs in his arm and you, feeding on it.
Once fresh, it then transformed into a layer of scab, of dried infliction by violence. But it seemed to be forcefully peeled away, like it involved the use of a potato peeler. You try to connect to me by the air surrounding us, by concreteness, you try to connect to him by computers and language and code and gender (uncertain). I regularly feed on my self-loathing, while you feed on his wound, his very pink wound, his calm stance and scandal.
I would've pushed you away if i was ever more violent, but my reflexes do not make their own decisions for now. I could chop your ears off, and they would have no walls and canals to deflect on for you to hear. Then they try to pirate me, hostage me for my not-so-passions, but you are useless and they only use you for their sadistic pleasures. If you are asking, i am full of myself right now, an ounce less as you were. The way you were expecting when you sat with a chair as an interval was pathetic. On the other side of loathing, i still can, sometimes, love myself too much.
He thanks you. He gives his gratitude in form of a lecture, and in other ways i'd like to imagine because you like to spend your time with him while talking to the taho vendor than you once liked sending stupid chocolate hill postcards to your grandmother. But i know, i really know, in the recesses of my mind you try to attach yourself to me in order for you to get a hold of your ego, your identity which is in form of a shadow, no feature, just outline, prone to transformation, to disappearance. Hey, (i choose no written way to address you,) face it: he will stick with the foreign girl, hair blonder than yours, whether he loves her or not, he has left the building, and there is nothing you can do about it.
His words are simply abstract; yours, a psalm from a nonexistent religion. None are like poetry.
The two of you remind me of Andriy and Ricardo, only dysfunctional and terribly unlikeable. (They both read the Bible for spirituality, you both read the Bible for literature.)
The two of you, a double biography:
The older one has the golden skin and the nightlife while the younger one, white as chicken fat, has had too much time spent by the well, armed by his bow-legged lashes, hazelnut irises and a sad, sad sad sad depressing life, too scared to either start or end it, or at least, act on it. The older one spends his summers in Malibu in his rayon-threaded clothes; the other one spends time breathing stale air, sulking in rags at the Venetian docks (waiting for Visconti to pick him up, perhaps?).
And the chicken-skinned one wades. (A few feathers lie on the shallow sea, refusing to drift further offshore.) He wades in the waters that connect to the open ocean. They meet and the other seas whisper in waves about them, they whisper and elicit controversy in form of a tide, in a code which no one else could decipher but the grey sands they wash over and receive their weight.
yes, that Elvis reference was necessary.
The way you long for physicality, the way i reject it, the way the pink wound throbs in his arm and you, feeding on it.
Once fresh, it then transformed into a layer of scab, of dried infliction by violence. But it seemed to be forcefully peeled away, like it involved the use of a potato peeler. You try to connect to me by the air surrounding us, by concreteness, you try to connect to him by computers and language and code and gender (uncertain). I regularly feed on my self-loathing, while you feed on his wound, his very pink wound, his calm stance and scandal.
I would've pushed you away if i was ever more violent, but my reflexes do not make their own decisions for now. I could chop your ears off, and they would have no walls and canals to deflect on for you to hear. Then they try to pirate me, hostage me for my not-so-passions, but you are useless and they only use you for their sadistic pleasures. If you are asking, i am full of myself right now, an ounce less as you were. The way you were expecting when you sat with a chair as an interval was pathetic. On the other side of loathing, i still can, sometimes, love myself too much.
He thanks you. He gives his gratitude in form of a lecture, and in other ways i'd like to imagine because you like to spend your time with him while talking to the taho vendor than you once liked sending stupid chocolate hill postcards to your grandmother. But i know, i really know, in the recesses of my mind you try to attach yourself to me in order for you to get a hold of your ego, your identity which is in form of a shadow, no feature, just outline, prone to transformation, to disappearance. Hey, (i choose no written way to address you,) face it: he will stick with the foreign girl, hair blonder than yours, whether he loves her or not, he has left the building, and there is nothing you can do about it.
His words are simply abstract; yours, a psalm from a nonexistent religion. None are like poetry.
The two of you remind me of Andriy and Ricardo, only dysfunctional and terribly unlikeable. (They both read the Bible for spirituality, you both read the Bible for literature.)
The two of you, a double biography:
The older one has the golden skin and the nightlife while the younger one, white as chicken fat, has had too much time spent by the well, armed by his bow-legged lashes, hazelnut irises and a sad, sad sad sad depressing life, too scared to either start or end it, or at least, act on it. The older one spends his summers in Malibu in his rayon-threaded clothes; the other one spends time breathing stale air, sulking in rags at the Venetian docks (waiting for Visconti to pick him up, perhaps?).
And the chicken-skinned one wades. (A few feathers lie on the shallow sea, refusing to drift further offshore.) He wades in the waters that connect to the open ocean. They meet and the other seas whisper in waves about them, they whisper and elicit controversy in form of a tide, in a code which no one else could decipher but the grey sands they wash over and receive their weight.
yes, that Elvis reference was necessary.