please! please! please give me something!
please give me something worth staring at!
i don't want to see this mush, this watermelon pulp
of a smoothie! i don't want to see it! give me something
i can cry over, like the mechanical lullaby from
the soundtrack of Coraline...
give me something worth
lamenting; it's not really poetry
if you're stuck in a rut and
suddenly gesture poetically
like it matters, what are the matters
elsewhere, what is really elsewhere
other than from being stuck in a rut in
a hole, where is the light at the end
of the tunnel? please don't become the tunnel,
let me see the light at the end of it -
i'm sick of peering into tunnels!
but you know what globalisation did,
i can write such ******* on the index
of pixels and feel all the more un-inhibitory;
i can listen to the Coraline soundtrack,
and watch my cat sleep,
and feel no guilt... because the world is
so large, and i rebelled against
globalisation by making it so so small,
it's so small you're not really allowed entry;
if you gained entry you'd feel castrated
or impotent;
like i said to her in her dipping of emotions
slicing her forearm open:
terror is worse than ******
(you can even hear them now, giggling while
being sterilised without an enforcement
to stop using both the contraceptive pill of
varied adverse effects and the anaesthetic
of pleasure that rubber ******* jacket)...
it's spontaneous, there's no apparent
symbolic build-up...
you can hardly expect the Autobahn system
with terrorism...
it just isn't there...
and while she sliced her hand en route the veins
i put the bread in the fridge
because it would provide a longer far away
expiry date...
and wrote that message on the kitchen tablet
in permanent ink...
i only went to a ******* because i was
rejected so many times, if felt natural
that such a profession should exist;
well d'uh, i'm all into speaking till dawn,
but sometimes a little bit of sensuality does miracles!
well, let's say it feels more than wiping your *** clean
after giving birth to a ****...
so there she was with her arm slashed,
and i encircled her wrist with my thumb and pinky
telling her: it's better that you didn't
chop your hand off.
and wearing sunglasses in the night
i learned the bonsai felines don't sleep as much
as you think, the ears are a give-away,
that sonar of theirs always keen to capture sounds,
they just keep their eyes closed,
it's not that they're sleeping,
these doctors of what is the vacuum and the existence
of anti-matter are awake
and try to hallucinate rather than dream,
hence they try hallucinating with their
eyes closed - until the real potent
hallucinations enter their minds while asleep;
dreams, dreams, dreams!
no, she can't be jealous of prostitutes!
she can't be, i paid for the ****** intimacy to feel
irresponsible and impersonal,
she didn't just do the dumbest thing imaginable
and become a pole dancer... no, she couldn't have!
what am i to do now? i've heard that jealousy exist
when you get really personal with a lover
who has a kinder profession than pure ****** exploitation;
but she did say she was abducted for ransom,
and if this isn't a lie, she did the most unselfish act
imaginable to un-servitude herself in a public exhibition
of exploitation... it wasn't a labyrinth any more,
nothing personal... while i got stuck
with music box ceramics of ballerinas twirling to a haunting;
she bought me like a kilogram of peaches
at the marketplace in the afterlife.