The hurt is not enough. the Frost crawling on the window keeps me grounded on this sickly saccharine reality,
i'd once described a bedroom in July as an example of the sucrose candidity of the human condition, sticking bobby pins in my hair i'd realise in January
that the Chelsea Hotel #2 scenes were as well, sticking to a sort of geniune artistic integrity come to bed, hey hello to my friend afterwards
and how was it's? with little no big toothy grins but then I would remember sitting under elm trees at Fitzrandolph drinking a cold
coffee, because it was hot then! and it was sunny then! and the weather conjured sweet artificial caramel flavorings- sitting under the tree and thinking about how good life is or
was. And when I realize that the forest is as dead as it ever was and I look at pictures of trees with leaves fully on, maybe in the forests of Alabama or Georgia,
I realize that I haven't seen a life in a long time- but when i burn my hand with the lighter the butane glaze on my skin i don't really mind it that much because i think of it and quite frankly
I like to say i'm as pure as I always was but, what burns me now: Desire desire desire and back then the museum was talking about Roethke
and it was all I needed I didn't mind the idle cab drivers that would call me Angel by the gates. and my Mennonite father said I need to
repent. I don't even want to go to church but that is all I end up doing nowadays anyways. Thinking about the sun, and falling over a piece of ice and seeing the
red scarlet (connotation vs denotation?) on the white of the ice i cannot help but think that once again *the hurt is not enough.