Changing appearances to match a change in vanity.

Selling off love to build up demand.

Burning all bridges for a fleeting smile.

Futility makes the world go round.
******
- I can’t...
- I don’t know...
- Can I have a cigarette?
- Should I have a cigarette?
- Can I go now?
- I’m going now.
- I love you too. (until further notice)
——————————————-
Crossing the infinity line of the Daytona 500
With coherent static

ADD: fractal minds for a fractal era/error

Bulimia: self-reduction through the eyes of the others

Sociopathy: economy

Stockholm Syndrome: or, everyone loves a good marauder

Münchhausen: recognizing the physical necessities of a compulsive liar

Violent takes prolonged by the snap of shutter:

If photos really make the ones inside more real
Can you still wear their love like skin?
How long can you believe you're part of them
And not a parasite?

1/1600

dreamworld with a side of fries and shackles, flash fed streams of folk tales, poured into a moving box not slow enough to outrun/dictated failings of the higher ups, proving hunger to be purity myths from weaker things/sight seen tombs of fallen angels guarded by demons slain, remade and gelded for the kapital/and always, always searching for a clandestine puff of 3-5 year prison term

The whole time seen while staring at stars
The bodies left behind as markers
For the space to occupy (inadequate survival but seemingly infinite)

All these narrow bridges threaten
When walked at night, but terrify in day
Flanked by a cold moral morass
Tossing the past away

Desert air
dry and lonely, but not
without a desperation,
blows down tired throats
with kisses, which come
rushing in,
the heat of universal grasping.

It isn’t strange
given common speeches
on hearts eaten
and hearts desired,
recounted with a coldness
born of the same places
as the heat.


But it is strange
the inability to swallow the chafing devils
making sandbags out lungs.
These will not choke the fools
who walk upon them,
even as the one eyed hermit,
whose sand scorched feet
belie his travels, cackles
“Well, at least for now."

Divisible only by degrees of filth

The hated cohabiting the trash bin, the beloved just as broken (seperate and unequal)

Tie a noose for yourself with string theory, multiple universes just mean multiple graves

would like to look up but fearing reflection/the horror movie scene of seeing age pour down your face in the mirror/rivers eroding what you remember of yourself/spending your last grains of sand trying to cure the concept of time

A poor historian in imperial ruin
Pieced together histories made from fragments and unpainted marble
——————————————————————————————
“We used to have fun”
“You’ve had too much to think” she says as she takes away keys
——————————————————————————————
Echoes in an empty hall

“Ceremonies?”
“Any movement at all?”

Dust settles in the palms of motionless hands

A return to these streets
Not to understand the incomprehensible void
Of lost time
Or because of duty bound marks
Left by chains
But for debts yet paid
In full to the ghosts
Which hold the self ransom

red straps across the back
lashes delicately placed across desires -
far too engrossing for the average passerby

draw it in, blow it out, drained

take a swig from the jug
in the dark; watch the flies move
through the bedroom
and congratulate the rest on
throwing out the things they used to wear
jokes on them, our wardrobes
were tattoos, and they aren’t skin deep
recollect a book of stamps
call it your past and burn it
there are far better things to stab with needles
than the arms of patients
being waved in distress

none of it has any bearing on my longevity in bed

the right kind of voyeurism: watching fields between two secret lovers burn in public conversation
always scorched with the threat of renewed fertility
always racked by a chilling lonely wind that gently brushes back the hair the manifest intimacy of a crafty doppelganger: in these spaces we live in constant mortal peril of discovery by an other or a spore

Light shoulders, heavy wings:

Grief as elevation
Grief placed in the mouths of babes and bystanders
Grief visited in sterile places
Grief spoon fed for weeks
Grief taken to momentary extremes
Grief as a diving bell

A 10cm network for all you need/nothing can ever be too fresh

je n'ai pas une femme
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

j'ai l'histoire pour le manque extraordinaire
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

j'ai vive sans un moment placide
sans le sang de les innocents
mais je n'ai pas une cigarette

je n'ai pas une femme
et je n'ai pas une cigarette

“Always remember that you matter, if only as a personalized scream into the chasm of existence”

————————————————————-

They’re all quite terribly polite, these places that carry the impeccable secrecy of your friends in a crowd

————————————————————-

“I watched those rodents grow maturely anthropomorphic and all I learned was that telephones have data plans”

this man’s been gone to ground
a while,
and earlier i’d seen him
smoking something
out from his pen
[a contraption of deceit
like the photo
he carries of himself
from 1960]
place bets: he was exciting!
a real man
of daring-do! of action!
no doubt he had
his fill of women in his day!
why he gropes at them still
despite his wizened form of head

Self obsession as a means to faith
control or
Destruction
//
Self Obsession as a means of understanding
Deliverance or
transmission
//
Self-obsession on the rocks
on the level
on the road to Damascus

come, if thou wilt
see the starry dreamer of the deep skyward gaze,
through history of unbearable pressures;

"Trust in my smile! I am an honest priest, dear boys. I can think of God for you as well"

quick flights between ethical discotheques to the end the night lead us all back up the steps down which the bodies were cast like dice, not loaded like the rest though they all fell face down anyways.

The moon hangs half cocked
Between the condominiums
Swallowed half in shadow
It still gasps for air
With its dead lips out to space.

Went 0/4 tonight and still was a star. Sequins are the new legitimacy. Fingers, the new lies.