In intimate spaces we co-create confessions whispered then written on the walls of our throats.
Cryptic messages we encode and decode in a language lied about as it lays around in suggestive shapes and gets mistaken as love: the fatal distraction that traffics erratically in abstractions.
Together, the intricate taxonomy of hegemony that suppresses, oppresses, and represses— see…— slices us ever so slightly making microtears on the tender insides of our wrists.
And so we get by ******* ourselves with their bodies, those sensual others, each on a sin committed—no commitment.
Or so we like to tease and appease our precious palates.
Fleshing out a casual cling, or an undefined thing, that’s a little less attached and much more detached.
Every day lived on the level of the supraficial: an anthology of escapist parodies— our idle hours taken witnessing the weaponization of the human condition.
Asymmetrical power relations infect the non-linear ecology of digital space; a pandemic of aesthetic proportions—the bourgeoisie fixation.
Acknowledge or pretend— these are the representative orientations of the privileged.
The plural fluidity of a have-not culture transmitted— processual, yet patterned— a shaky stance while standing on shifting ground.
My only wish is for ideas and egos to be as they are: warm: malleable to the motions and outcomes of expansion and contraction.
We are a productive catatonia personified and manifested.
These are the semiotics of a soon-to-be-irrelevant decay. This is history’s obsession with cyclical pragmatics. Eventually, a submission the psychotic use of political narcotics. The constant critique, endless in its scope, is our continuous expansion in the realm of possibilities.
In time, we will become as primitive as our ancestors.
At times, she was merely a whisper, but at others— the idea of her was a roar: some sort of rampage that ran and ravaged men’s minds leaving a moisty mess in its pasts.
It is a waltz written for two, by two, but witnessed by legion.
Entire skinscapes under the wretched eye of the ******; from public to private: a steady state of impassivity: institutional lies lay out a constitution for the politics of representation.
Moments made to mutually respect the most human enterprise: self-interest.
Spaces of our socialization constructed in intimate corners that capture explicit scents of the implicit sense.
Discourse engaging in an interruptive objectivity.
Questions of the whos, whats, where, and whens curl up eventually in conversational cul-de-sacs.
When truth is a transaction the historicity of our chemical desires and cultural anxieties are the outcome of an interrogative ideology.
Reality’s tentativity creeps up on all of us cruising towards a blissful relativity.
In the absence of a defining aesthetic the conversation peters off and teeters on— no!— onto: awkwardness.
Soon the night ends, and she and I are left staring alternately at each other and occupied space, picking at the crusty traces left behind by exes asking the empty airs of bad religions the whys and hows of this petty predicament.
No answers are heard—of course.
The digital silence of a lack thereof has us waxing sentimental and raging hormonal for the warmth of analog love.
And to that we raise empty palms waiting to be filled once more with the glorious light of even emptier promises.