Overcast Sunday

A chryssaline visage of a rusted over typrewriter, broken, burntwrite.
The air creeps chilled as winter approaches.

I

You heard I'd had a hard life and I didn't know where you'd got that from:
A collection of understanding from the outside -
The sad rage it inspires to make me break down the rafters of the atmosphere.

Go to Patagonia, keep your spacious silence and let the trees sway with the boredom that begs-what am I doing here? Read a prophecy in the stars, quit your job because work is only life is only love if it's found in the for-rest.

Who is I and what is most real? To hide one's sadness because it doesn't make for the life of a party. It doesn't make for life.

But why so critical? Why so exclusionary? Right now, I feel perfect and alone - they are not mutually exclusive, they only work together under chemical conditions.

"Would you love me if I was no fun?"

What would it take? There are so many factors of benevolence and a world full of critics. Let us walk the knifeline, hand in hand, but don't look me in the eyes. Hand in hand, back to back.

So tell me what you've heard and why you care - Tell me what is frustrating and why it's a bare trap in the middle of the woulds. You let me on inswimmingly and semen stains the mountaintops. Before that, we were out of our elements but here, here where the coats we wear incubate our limited, specialized hearts, we hope to hell the heat is enough.


II

Advertisements and condensation.

The local forum, a spread apart. Shoestained maelstrom. To further an inhibition with the curve of a flatting tire.

The empty flow of a war, calm. Take me in, the licking wag of a blood's lust. Touch your pulse, Thomas, in fearful that the grandiosity of your chosen words don't flit away.

The view from alove: here I am, canvas and coarse. Timedrunk, timeless, Laestrygonians.

You try to put things back but they wont go back. Aeneas is Odysseus...I think that was the point all along. And he is I is Arthur Rimbaud, whose words I've never skimmed. Milkless and dry.

Trials and slings, outrageous fortune. A burning world of barbarousness. Nine times here out of done. Disquietude. It crumbles like skyscrapers, because even you, Mr Roark, don't exist, and you Ms Rand, are dead now.