Mar. 5th, 2014

Legs.

Lately I've been over conscious of scent. This place always smells like paint, even after these months even after trying garlic domination and candles and flowers and fresh laundry and not so fresh laundry- that paint smell comes back and I wonder what I'm breathing, what's seeping skinwise and curling round cellular. The sun is still mean, petulant, ignoring us, imploring us to notice- distance. Pool hall smells of basement and beer. Is a basement... Work, new paper and desperation in equal volume and varying density. The Kitchen downstairs changing from coffee to lunchmeat, from new fired furnace to fried food as clock ticks out of sync with sun dial- each insisting truth.
You are just models, I say.
Just, they ask:
Just?

I modeled once, at the behest of two persuasive Young Artists- hardly proud of my physical form but compelled to prove that I was like them, a Free Spirit(

"When one is young, one venerates and despises without that art of nuances which constitutes the best gain of life, and it is only fair that one has to pay dearly for having assaulted men and things in this manner with Yes and No."

"Later, when the young soul, tortured by all kinds of disappointments, finally turns suspiciously against itself, still hot and wild, even in its suspicion and pangs of conscience- how wroth it is with itself now! how it tears itself to pieces, impatiently! how it takes revenge for its long self-delusion, just as if it had been a deliberate blindness!"

Beyond Good and Evil, Part Two: The Free Spirit
F. Nietzsche


), shameless and not bound so tightly by sex politics, mores, those stressors us enlightened few can't be bothered by... I could only fake it, of course, of course, my neutrality a product of opposing panics- antlers locked in motionless strain.

Are we such delicate machines then, am I so fragile? Or does balance trump material, and do I prove stronger through willingness to yield in all the right places and never in the wrong ones? Can I be spear, net, and caster, can I be the aurochs and autochthon, the whip and the cyclone, the ballast, the sea foam, the paper cut and high brow, the gallery opening, the moray entourage all jellied and mashed, snapshots of hard bodies like liquor bottles begging for lips and secret-promising numb limbed futures, immunity to sharp edges, skin shucked and bone white futures, reed whistling storm watched futures- silhouetted cliffside, curled round the last tree, round the final moon, a pair of us wrapped round each other, round all the World. Us, hemispheres and horizons- mirrorless reflections, each perfected by the others regard, each honed sleek and worn supple round the other's hip, thigh, neck, purse to part to gape to gasp and there!

there, there I have your truth you penitents of the Unclean Sun, you Worldly Men, you whores, masters, sycophants, you half-saints and candy devils, there I have what you profess exclusive rights to springing from my hands in daft symphonic bounty. Put away your gleaming fingerprinted windows, remove your corsets, combat boots, and decorative nooses- join me in the Cave tonight. Let me show you a little fire. Let me remind you-

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