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October 21, 2005 - 12:25 a.m.
the impossible consumer insatiable customer two girls, multiple, ... she wants the pants, all styles, all washes but most she wants the shirt off your back and the back too while she's at it. i'll do my best to forget. i can't feast on so little my appetite wanes but i fill myself with other things drinks poured with casual loving fondness and I smile, red lipped, but nothing compares snow, not white, but red, is the colour of unheard-of kisses in sleep and silence except those parted lips and the spaces between warm sheets and soft limbs i climb inside myself, rocked in the water of my slow post-bar, orchard apples in brown paper bags, red velvet blazer and bouffant hair, fresh roots, dirty and waiting for the rejeuvenation of morning, thoughts, fleeting over so much tangible space, except in my brain it's so close too close for comfort
AND MORE:
the code, encrypted, unattainable. why, why not? is leaving the reason this is so good? expiration dates, drawing attention to the perishable, cling wrapt hearts and fall air coming through cracked windows and black curtains. The pink walls are my heart, papered in news and print, ink, hands stained with beet juice, pulp left pressed and distressed on the edges of my vision. There is no story here, and no answer to anything involving why. I gave you everything so that tomorrow I wont be left holding myself out, and noone here to take it. there would be no point anyways. i always start out with a lie, mitigated by some pointed, pained truth. lay myself bare, to expose a rarer bit of flesh beneath the surface lie. lying in your bed, we change our clothes and our words, coming closer to something we can't name and so, we speak in opposites because anything but denial would be an overstatement. i cannot like you this way. we have life, planned and already beginning to turn, perished, but flapping on the hook. Barundi, i learned, the rare, desperate fish that rips itself apart to avoid the sharp end of life. I flip myself into the pan, marinating in the juice of my own bad judgement and build fires all around me, smoking out desire that will not die. I flip, yet again, when the tide recedes and I am left, hooked, parched and wanting. waiting to know more of the things I cannot know, or want, or understand.
or change
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