From behind ash dusted coasters sat the worsening situation of the increasingly less young, or more accurately the banal.

Bared it’s teeth to the mirror, it did, above the green bottles of forlorn gins. Ornate borders of streaked glass,

muted tones and expectations. It could happen at any moment. Never be too happy. And exponential corridors

you walk for so long that you begin to consider the exegesis and the Eucharist, that you run your hand along the cracking wall

paper, to feel it lift away and sigh at your touch, only slightly more amused than before, consecrated. Where near the end,

light comes in slivers and the water rises from the floor to meet your nostrils ever so graciously. How the void comes to you, and not the opposite. Knowing

what we did, then, was a matter of breath and perception, the totality of chance and redemption. Fine concepts for fine folks. Motivational geometry.

The fleeting mistress is a Malthusian catastrophe, but she is ours, and we are yet to discover any other way of
touching her face.

If perchance to press lips blush with blood, beaded with sweat, throbbing with nerve endings, to the soft flesh and wispy,
invisible hairs of a peach.

If flagrant in the demonstrations of ecstasy, it was only because I couldn't pretend otherwise, rendered helpless in the sweetness and wetness of the nectar.

If the heat were an illusion then my breath said otherwise, the condensation being gas, being liquid, but most importantly,
being.

If I could be convinced of the infinite then it could only be in this moment, when I tenderly so
ate you whole.

I

She doesn't walk right. There is something
about her pigeoned toes that bleeds
into the night. And here we are knowing what's right,
being right we enforce right, in not being right. Maybe
she didn't have guidance on how to walk right. Maybe
someone let her down.

II

I live in a movie. What I want to be is in the screen
and in me, in me and the screen, what I wish to
be, though I'm bored by the movie of I, I still
aspire to exist as both true life and media creation. The succession
of images in my mind, my own reality show, the sum of my
channel surfing, my own dystopian prestige sitcom. Standing
at the end of history and the end of time, ending, in the apocalypse
I watch on T.V.
It's not real, so nothing I do matters. There is something
about how the voyeurism of violence bleeds into the
morning's sad awakening.

Where is the lust, it's beckoned twin,
it's dawning onset of emptiness. Emptiness
-no: embarassment.
Where is the biological imperative
in such a feeling, to feel constanstly, to live the feeling like a habit, to go along brushing teeth and closing doors?

If I felt nothing it was because I was pretending
that the cold cleansed, that moon rays laying lavishly across rippled banks of the first snow, were
somehow poetic, thus eternal. If I forgot
the conditioned response it was lost on the frugal lake,
the clear water
- still, pure -
aground encroaching ice.