Music

Why he sat down to hear her play and in his poise, in his silence, he said the only thing worth saying and she heard it while she was playing but later it wasn’t silence that she wanted but noise and style and that just goes to show that desires are different at different times and they are all just a narrative. Manana.

So much noise and so much knowing and so much let me tell you whatting and so many fashions to display an inner state that tells so much but looked at through a telescope is just another Halloween costume.

Thick passions dictating clubs and social poses washed solid in the face of flagrant exercise run by in the heavy handed hold of a plastic cup of coffee and a few hand rolled cigarettes but you might as well just buy them.

Wait til a soul has passed beyond before you take a jab that might offend off hand and lower the quality of his day for afterall what the fuck business is it of yours?

Do you sell gluten free beer, cowboy?

Cut down the worlds around our own to own a little island of monotonous flora while the waves lap slowly in and out and the sun gives us melanoma.

Procreate the world you want to live in through imagination and storytelling and make yourself into so much [different] from what you clearly are to everyone who’s never heard you open your mouth.

Through bloody miracles we yawn and cite their sources.

He hasn’t seen a soul or sent a word to a world that wont remotely care without the breath that issued it but that’s ok because it wouldn’t matter to anyone until he cut them down in such a way that revealed how tall he was anyway.

Again against the wind let me tell you something.

And shape our beards to tell a story and keep our lips sealed for they’re no longer useful.

There is a day waiting in the future – I’ve seen it – when they will dig through this ravenous and pull on their spectacles and quote that what they don’t understand to show others who don’t understand that they understand for it will color a world otherwise too dry too bland too blind to notice that they were just words spat for the sake of spittin something and the true story had already begun and ended before the pen was picked from the table.

I am what I say. Therefore, I remain silent.

My stories are to amuse and to write an other me into existence but somewhere completely detached from its source. Birthed and bred in the heads of those around this me who is the other me is not real but ten thousand times are powerful and as present as the real me will ever be.

Check out my poise and dream of my favor.

Words spoken through different mouths but never recognized by different ears.

This is a story. This is a narrative. This is a fiction. This is everything I’ve ever been, the only thing I’ve ever been, the best I can ever hope for, and a quiet pile of cardboard for breakfast.

Keep drinking in the world of changed body. I hope I never get sober.

And now we stretch for history. We drink too much in hope of epiphanic oblivion. But we just get tired: total bust.

Last time it worked but last time there wasn’t time to take advantage of the situation so it came and went leaving achy shaky legs and a small pile of money with no records to show for it.

These are the dreams of caffeinated sophomores who one day shift to a thesis and then a source of income and lose their stream of output with some regret but not enough regret to have it any other way.