background

why am i tired?
it is all the obscurities.

i now know everything. i really do.
i am aware of the histories that reside there.
the social networks have become clear.
the lineages have been caressed and followed for years.
i have spoken and heard of reasons and motives are plain to me.
investigations into purpose sink redundant.
the confusions have been exposed and expelled.
no justification is hollow, no prediction in vain, no stone unturned.
the signifiers signify.
the projections have faded, the trust returns.
confidence slowly ebbs back unseen, proving all things right.
i understand the universals that always apply, no matter what.
i have walked across fields and hills, and by rivers to get to you.

i must sleep.
one cannot be in the head of another.

therapy

“you need to find what it is you love, for i think you have forgotten. and you must pursue it while you are still alive, as if you own the day. you must realize that while most men are weak, we are not all sex fiends. boys desire trust and faith, and a lifelong companion. many are diverted from this course by heartbreak, but cannot escape it. it is biological. so use the perspective afforded by your anatomy, crystallize your thoughts in the mouth of another, believe, and all else will follow. that will be five hundred pesos, please, plus fifty for the coffee.”

i inhaled.

there is something in this

i move inside from the streets full of early morning promise (the threat of action) and think of you, with effort this time. normally you exist in my stomach like the stone of fruit.

inside looks different, there is something intangible here. it feels like appropriation, it feels like what i should see, it lacks reality. it reminds me of creation and falsification, of depths and tragedies. it warns me of absence, and that i was outside. it reminds me of outside.

you are there.

there are no spaces inside the house, no neutralities that belong to them as much as they belong to me. i have registered every perspective and garnered every outlook, sealing and defining them within framework that only i admonish.

where are you?

the tower blocks that stretch away beyond and above me upon my path to work, hold unknowns in every window, a million windows; a story for every one. there is nothing in the house like this. i know it all; i assimilate, reproduce, extend and protract the dualities of things, the me and them purposes that coincide with, overlap, reject and exclude each other. the tower blocks to me are a landmark for tired eyes, visual narrowing, neon concrete. to you, and you, and you, and me, it is home.

do you sit, or stand?

inside equal a reinforcement of outside, a secretary for illusions nurtured away and away and further still, back to a time when this was not known of, and now and then all that is known is that there is the world. without, nothing changes. with, nothing changes. this intensity forces a recollection, a throwback to the time before, a stark resolution (though only written upon black in chalk) in which the previous state brings us to the current state which only elucidates on the nothingness of the previous.

there will be reproach for you my darling, just show yourself. where do you hide?

outside is something to believe in, it is the misery of smoke filled street laid out before a heavy dawn; this is the chance to be lost. i may only think of you when inside, but you will always remain outside. i think i shall shut the door, i have left it open. we are getting a little cold.

the awesomest dude in houston

christmas here in texas
will be rockin’ times ten to
the power of one.

that’s how i roll.

blessed christmas to you and yours.

what other people do

naked
knee raised
gothic sprawl
smoke, then
cloud chatter

naked
glorious
transparent
heroine
maybe in paris?

naked
naked
your hand
stubs out death
strokes my nape

i cannot but love you.

outside,
a frog belches in hell,
i lower my lips
to its incredible pot belly
and give a kiss.

i cannot love you.

email

i awoke, lifted your slumbering comatose arm from my torso, padded barefoot naked to the window to check the rain’s drift. and there in the email: immaculate papyrus, crossed swords–cryptic, punitive, convoluted machinations of reason.

here, transcribed:

(these verbs cement a foundation upon discourse: accept and reject ideals simultaneously through a redefinition of core concepts. stories come too easily. ignore such lies until there appear to be no more. then read, anonymously and without reference to place. my time is without you, i am dealing now in the unsaid. mine are fingers condemned, where the same novel, the same tunes and the same past will meter our impending youthful doom. they will dash us upon rocks and crevices, upon opaque mountains and foothills of paper truth. this is us all just the same as it was, the only way.)

(abandon all pretense. burn these screen strips of worn hurt. steal away a virgin alongside the ripened canal. take another, build a mountain range, a bus stop bench, a monument to malcontent with your calloused eyelids as i drift in and out of smoke like silk. gulp diet coke and dance back to sleep. then wake, then write.)

(we courted under glitterball revolutions, electroclash rhythms gave us the idea of eating, and eat each other we did. the soundtrack of mildew gasping in syncopation with urinal flush cycles, an introduction in no way harmful to the future. did you see the structure of love in the gaze of the bouncer? the relevance of form’s necessity stole you. let me question, as it will strengthen your sweat-stained neck, your oiled collarbones, and flex further within the confines of thought.)

(forever adore my underwear, forever underage, forever spun like concierge distaste. hang these ideas upon your bedroom when very much alone, for only then will you be ready to let me inside.)

(and so i go, wishing you incredible clarity in the day’s temperament. allow me an epilogue: last night i exorcised anger whilst walking to the bassline of abstraction. across carparks and playgrounds, i forgot the passing crowds. excluded all but low-frequency decibels and a photo of you. and it all seemed to fit.)

our past–one of those seamless visions of a beauty that resides within the confines of love lost.

sevenforty

crumpled paperback
not been read for days.

i’ve not read for days
except in the bathroom
where i cried and
where peacock feathers
betrayed the inevitable
negation of hope
by maintaining beauty throughout.

vegetarian soup for the soul, pt 2

oh shit. i think it might be love.
no, it is definitely mange-tout.