Thursday, January 14, 2016

nightfall.

i am in a desert. i can't drag even my tits up. the middle east does not offer me grace. i swallow sand upon every movement. i shit sand. i can't bear dragging myself against the weight of the elements. perhaps we are all particles, i thought one day, thinking something nice out of desperation. of the universe. perhaps i am turning the color gold, the gold of the sand, each grain unique, the sunset breathing itself on it.

a sandstorm sweeps me. i am thirsty. i want to know about something, to believe in god, or whatever it is i idealize in the moment. it's nothing about getting my tits sucked on, nothing about my pussy dripping nectar. it's an opposing sexuality. it's the things that say no.
i plant them under my wings where, when ready to fly, the are never to return home.

they'll never make it anywhere else, either. without their pride which i burned alive, they'll never make it.

but i believe in being a particle. meat sitting with a few slabs of meat. girl sitting on her bed, staring downward. she has gone where the rules tell her not to go. she is in big trouble. she retreats to the rules because she gets shamed when she doesn't follow the rules. the rules don't welcome her in. she sheepishly following them around, slouching over. she doesn't appear to have it in her to follow the rules. there is no-where, so it seems for her, to go.

she goes to prison where she masturbates every night.

everyone there is in there for some big-shot reason or another- they all think they're elvis, but they're not. elvis is being held captive with duct tape across his mouth, around his wrists and around his ankles. she becomes desensitized to does not believe in reasons. she's been invaded so often, why can't he do the same to her? she tells elvis that if he were to just lose touch with reality, fucking would be everything signifying importance. moving around under elvis, she's fully in touch with the fluidity of being a human being. that this is all that is the business of human beings.
she's called a whore and a sex addict because people are dicks.

love is a bunch of bullshit. if you can't happen to see, my guts are everywhere. that has something to do with someones shit.
love is fucking ugly and disgusting. love is the cokehead on the road. it certainly doesn't get me off. and, noting its relentlessness, it can't stop getting itself off.
it stops you from doing many important things. like taking care of your own unique emotional needs and maintaining healthy judgment. all you begin to fucking care about anymore, after a certain point, is the image representing your love, love so overwhelming it takes on mass. and honestly, they're probably fucking ugly, whoever your love might be. being an asshole does that to a person- makes them turn ugly.
because- the best part of this story- love makes people turn into assholes. they don't know any better than to hold onto the reflections of others. the evolutionary rate of the human is slow. they haven't taught themselves how to altogether let go yet.
in the meantime, i say everyone get a divorce and burn money or go to hell. and steal every fucking book that's trying to sell itself to you.

i lean on my back, being sacrificed. this is ancient greece, so i'm to be raped. i'm fucking cold because i'm naked, waiting. and i happen to want to fuck. so i allow myself to let go and think of fucking. fucking and crying and shitting.
my eyes are closed. in their stripper heels my feet move upward against a muscular, soft body. a giant rattle snake leans over me, huge, bigger than me; he flickers his tongue toward me. i'm going to allow this beast to fuck me and set me free of bullshit. i look into his eyes to read his soul- we all need to piss on our territory some way or another.

and then he is fully there.