Monday, August 31, 2015

western body.

disbelief holds still, suspended
in mid-air, in front of people. the crowd goes wild.

(this is the story of the showgirl's lifestyle.)

it's the closest they will

get to know a stranger
whose story they've already fabricated. they like it.
the voice of our generation

is spoon-fed. it will air on television, after

it sucked
as a movie. as a movie it was earth and you had to pay attention

to know what you were doing. it was turned into

either a portal of hell, or hell itself. but definitely,
somebody here

is the anti-christ (protection
against reality, which is clearly
a nightmare).
and anything not for it is totally medieval

and probably didn't have enough of a
tortured upbringing. suppose

this borderline society is an offering of my soul,
the thing that happens

to be there; the only thing not damned.

although i'm not connected
to anything, i still have memories

to inspire my dreams.

i remember once walking into this produce store.
it has since
gone out of business. aligned along the right wall of

this establishment were

varying herbs you could use to relieve yourself
from aches and pains.

i recognized the names of all of them...yes, they

rang bells, however, i couldn't remember
what any of them were for. not a single damned
herb. knowledge is an earth-thing-

it has never stuck to me
not even when i like it, only when it's stupid shit,
even though i'm not stupid. but anyway,

this day, particularly,
it hurt.

when i arrived home
after this anxiety attack in a public place, i looked up
everything ever
in my encyclopedia of herbology and pressured myself

into remembering it all; into staying connected
to whatever there was to learn. there
wasn't much i remembered after this military-effort
at studying.

over time, you expect to get used to this kind of thing.
you expect relief. it has only proceeded

to hurt more. i'm beginning to sort of turn grey though- i mean,
i'm getting a little jaded. so being hurt
is becoming okay. it's like totally blah, but

it's okay.

the skin-trap ossifying; old fossils roam, along with
the smell of burning hair
the smell of burning plastic. a forever-deal. this is grief defined,

the sum
of its stages, played by the rules-
which one must not ever


is an awful lot of pressure. and if you fuck up,

and miss a step, it's because you suck,

clumsy behind a knife in the
observable universe, and the

avoidance of such.

walls offer paper thin discernment. take them. they're free,