People just want to take their face, and wipe it off on you. Take their face, with all their fear, and problems written all over, perspiring sweat, and leave it off on your face to be taken care of. my dog on my sock, subway cars into scarves. how do we get rid of what we are? Why do we want to? Why do we scratch at something. Use what we have to express. why do we bite into flesh, lick it. through the mouth. unable to open the whole body beneath us and devour it. roam with our hands through the blood and muscle, bridge our fingers deep, and grip and rattling skeleton of the endless bone, the closest thing in reality's proximity, the structure that holds us straight, never asks to be felt, to be held, to be thrown away. It is the core of those things. why is beauty and it's egoism not enough? why is intellect, and philosophy not enough. Why is listening through our breathe to our lungs sometimes enough. we want stillness, but the music of the city.
but the music of the city roams through streets and their bones. the memory of my muscle, the piercing sound of sex and beaming electro lights, mingling with the aroma of dangerous breathe in liquid perfume, mixing with the colour spilling on dishes of our eyes, bowls of magneta ink, and our bodies, both our bodies, standing in the dance hall, blinking back at us. with nothing more to say
Do we need to speak to one another to understand….what is really going on. What is going on in the city, in our bodies, where our wrists reach from the mind down to the silence - distance covering us in coolness. in possibility. I trail with my eyes the flailing skirts above the fly's of patterns in convexing motion, spiral upward your strong legs. The experience of her heart. conveyed in the rhythm of your mind of music. our bodies in a language of crime, silence. of no communication.
I want to stand still. and i still want you to love me. But you're not here. I have to travel. Legs, Heart. I always have to travel. When i come back, I am hounded by torpedoing memories, the further i go into life. in these brief interlude, between sand, sea and time. Where nothing is mine, yet everything is still and ...O i am happy. Full Circle. You are everywhere. And yet I have forgotten you by now. For to need you I never did. Just the experience of travel has left a bitter taste in the mouth of memory that devour my minute into non sense. Where i sense eternity. In the place we all lived once, and - still- live only once. And do multiple things within a day, our mind is astounded.
…..To write I always forget. Yet it's all i would do. For I am -still- in that action. The room is filled with bodies of urgent voices on their sides, hands supporting their heads, in a break, listening to the tapping of my fingers, into a solemn speech. listening to the only voice they do not care to seize power over, though the water, the falling into transcendence, prevents such ambition.
white sheets of paper, into lightly fallen thoughts. hopping past speech. past travel. not needing to communicate. my communication skills suck. Yes…I need to take that off my city to life, city to dreams "Resume". I am retiring. and moving through my picture gallery with scorn. please, No more colour! No more norm! Disappearing in the distance into ~ white cloud the exclusivity - within which all of me and what I invite gets to disappear. and to exist. Without the glare, without the ignorant glare, of the external age, in the external eye.
the conscience …. break yourself ….pause..still.
white colour
free
