bad apple

12 January 2007

Caridad,

Horrors of night can easily become bondage that alongates our hands in order to reach. A melodic terror will stop us from parting. Petal might occur, so as to disregard things: ovums know to make their return as THEY do.

I would (Shakespearean) that intravenous ink ran instead, the stale burgundy, satin. I have it out for her: fang and claw.

With woe:
Rivers have been ill, stocked properly so now they sustain many a line. Unlucky enough, I guess.

At the table I actually said, "Your eyes look like grates." Speaking in a matter of deeper saying. I did not know. Cast iron, metal, train tracks. I should never wake up the same, stand all the same, as tomorrow, as after. A baby falls asleep, becomes grayed with neglect and all I think about is that woman wearing red, her hair, the fabric falling softly on that curve. I desire methods of incomprehension and lies. She kisses like a fucking poem (bite my lip).

Funny you should ask about the strongest structure: one sits on my lap, interrogating. Having failed to give fully I slander passerbys and make war on the sidewalk. I say (meet bricks and mortar) that closure cannot happen, exept maybe on that bridge. "The Charles," my mother says, "has been there for 700 years."

Most men will rise if the wind rattles: oak, anxious, cushion, feeling despair. Afraid of the wrong choice, they tap around without a map.

Chase a brighter line and do not be bothered to respond. She drags me out on walks to nowhere. I follow revelling in her tangled hair when I find ridicule and taunts in order to remind me of my place (Bajo). Low. On the bottom.

"You're an empty shell..." we say for eachother. I cannot go back. I am here and gripped. No skin do I yearn for, no phisicality. There is no satisfaction. Only hunger is comparable. A fool with infinity in my bags. Do you mind if I spend the night? My crass disregard: all are discarded. All shades work interchangeably.

I can't recall any of their names sometimes: a field of bodies.

Bajo (el peso del ser). Trs. Under the weight of being. K.

P.S. I cannot wear anything but grey. Too much resolution. My collection is not black or white. I dress in a love affair of "film noir". I promise (as so often) not to buy a pistol . . . though I do not choose this, I conceed.

"You want to buy a gun?" he asks surprised.
"I really, really do" I say grinning
"That's cool, like a shotgun?" Now, sympathizing.
"No, like a handgun," I correct him.
"I've got a shotgun because I have mountain lions in my yard," informingly.

The mountain lions are in my head.

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