(no subject)
vs.
Sometimes I think of how predictable everything really is… like when you see those two looking at nature and you know they’re in for. 25 ta life. Maybe something a little more fleeting. morosely creeping. Maybe it’s just a product of pomo, of revisionism at its best. Where modernism taught us how to move and shake and where how to move with only two feet? Fear of heights. Fight or flight. We’re stuck in this entropic state, it’s a beast to tell you the least. Where we’ve learnt all the techniques. Where we’ve learnt how to sway, not to stay. Where we can’t find a way out. Where’s the continuity?
How this form is too organic though it shouldn’t be. [resistance to our environment] Not now of all times. Lapses.
And she’s got those lips, the ones you held to kiss, the ones you swore yourself to one night and then it’s gone. And it’s never the fucking same. Not playing this game. Pre fucking ordained? Or just fucking plain.
How transition works. How death holds your life in place. How change once meant something less sanctimonious. How you virility kept itself alive. How I could swallow those fucking eyes. Those restless meandering eyes.
A tender taught terrible terrible wish. It was so sick. You stop in your tracks and count backwards again. Read a little more Auster and you’re lost in this soul. Old soul, tread to shreds.
So where will you be waiting for that midnight flicker. A spark so dense with no consequence. Nothing to lose, no plans, rainchecks, accepted.