Burrowed, inverse. Nest. They could wait there in the dark growing fat distended- wet origami faces, fractal lubricants with infinite surface and no volume, coating everything. In between, everything. Mediating you, and us, and all our people.

Despair, and I hate this word as I hate hell, montagues, and... is really, understandable- if you were, say, plunging to your doom in a fiery blaze. For instance. It would be generally accepted by my peers for the plungee to feel abject terror. Likewise, one in our current society should be forgiven for their self righteous despair and progressive madness.

Our luck, then. Our luck...

Somewhere, sometime, an awkward group of elderly people watch "Riding in Cars with Boys" until the credits roll before standing and d-drifting away in silence. I stay, and watch the screen go static light the room up in ghost blue, stay there all night soaking in and paying homage till dawn do us part.

Hello

Jun. 30th, 2013 11:05 pm
Hi! These are words. Words words words. And so on, colorful adjective, tenuous analogy. Terse interlude. Indicate nonspecific dissatisfaction. Smile. Make a joke. Explain in too much detail, insert bad poetry, off key alliteration. Something beautiful goes here. Make peace but not too much. Glance at navel, shrug and smoke another... Smile. Make a joke. Let it slide, just let it slide.

We don't mind grasping at straws, long as there's white russians or somethin at the end of em.
My toothless anima. My aim, my balance, my air and my pressure my soft steady grasping. My wind, my flow and waver, my gaping jaw, my red internal, my brittle rhinestone bones. My crest, my horizon sinking in starlight.

I see that many misunderstandings spring from my habit of phrasing questions as declarations. Often the person I'm exchanging barbs with doesn't realize that my claims are truly inquiries.* I expect my statements to be questioned, no, I demand it. Rick Roderick said something like: No smalltalk, I'm not gonna talk about the weather don't have time, gonna die soon. Still. There's a pattern in the mundane, more about sound than semantics. Rhythmic exchanges around fire. Standing confidently at dawn, living outside always.

They call it the Moth Routine. The trick, they say, is to get close enough to burn off all that shit you whine to yourself about. All the dead skin along with its parasites. All the stains and gnarled growths. Come out the other side fresh and smooth and steaming with new vitality!

Sotheadsays.



*My demeanor, of course, of course, is what they call matter-of-fact. I tend toward the deadpan, and carefully balance my melodramatic excesses with equally deficient understatements.

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