Image by Dan Lynn
… and in fragility we embrace said the universe to a sinking parking lot dining on the empty floors of kings going on-and-on like war had nothing to think about or sing about or die about; like something cradling nothing in the anything of our everything world. Like this city has an eerily-clad glazed scepter of flowery-eyed blind birds track-tracing me down like the blacked-out noir reparation of unreciprocated sexual horror futuristically hollowing me inside-out like a cave that paints nightmares on my neck with the ink-scabbed tears that shatter the end-everything of my ocean-shored love story.
Then on my neck, in my soul, on my lips, in my eyes, on my fingers, in my heart, through my bones, in my mind – like in everything – there wastes a forest-eyed barcode swallowing my throat outside-in like the breath-choke struggle of love dying; that intake-exhale that fills our world with waterfalls welling up…
Like a promise written on glass – a warning.
Where every kiss is a crime and every crime is a kiss; every city the sold-out acid-wave color of shape and loss like wings and songs and nothing wrapped-up in the cold-steel brick-and-stone foundations of metal-tinted gray-glassed buildings watching us all trying to feel like there’s anything left to feel (here). Our friends now violent stalkers chase-stalking silenced portraits of things stark and sinister, shape-shifting past the percussion-roll drum-beat of our table-topped passions (lurking behind the closed eyes of our predatorily philosophical musings on longing and perfection).
Something perpetually beautiful and everlastingly startling.
Something sensually sexual; like waves washing over our naked skin under the star-child manifest of (god’s eyes) ten-car highway wrecking our notions of sanity and humanity – like the stale-tale taste of an odyssey losing sight of infinity.
Like a city of slave-bred patrons partying in the drug-hazed immunization of culture like condom-strapped gospels preaching education on the bread-platter spread of starvation smothered in the statistical self-appraisal of sold-money money-selling itself back to some sort of beginning like narcissistic vanities claiming the dysfunctionally-fucked stratifications of mock-celebrity ejaculations trapped in the porno-cycled rerun of stupidity feeding back on itself.
But then – like always – this saturday nightmare breaks me down like a world gone sun-dark; like pavement-kissed collisions listening to the nothing-ghost sound of sensual touch while all the time believing tonight has a reason, tonight has a story – that ‘give me meaning, give me purpose’ whisper hovering over me like all the junk-torn missteps we took in all those private-fucked wars lording over us like bibles and prophecies politicizing regression into policies of benign neglect.
Like a blood-soaked hand guiding us through the night.
Said the universe: in the end, someone wrote a book, someone fought a war, someone said something, someone believed, and then something changed.
Then our lives became. Today became. We became. We were. We are.
Then we forgot something. The sun began to die. We began to die. Our earth began to die.
Then there was nothing – and everything. And more.
And in fragility we embrace…