i like you

i am making up for lost time in the first person, companion, and i like you.

i like the fact that i don’t need you. you are beautiful, sitting there with your smiles and stories of your past and present. i remember all your birthmarks. but don’t get me wrong, i don’t need you.

i like the fact that this journey is longer in the first instance and shorter on the second. it is all about acclimatization, and the smell of your perfume.

i like the fact that you are teasing me and that you run your tongue over your teeth and that everything you say is affected by that accent, and at times i even feel slightly weakened by you, but i don’t need you and this journey isn’t too bad.

i think of someone again and again, even while i’m thinking of you, dear travelling companion. i even talk to that someone, as if that isn’t enough.

i like you, you are making up for lost time, the time i would have lost to silence and solitude, and perhaps even those spirals which take me away from people and into myself, sometimes for weeks when each of my words is clothed in fatigue.

and although i don’t need you, and i like you, we are not expended. you are beautiful enough to think of during private moments of self-pleasure, but also mundane enough to prevent serious infatuation.

those words again: i like you.

the question

the question is always raised:
how to write in the midst of a disaster?
the answer is there, but hidden,
within the world’s turn.

it always turns.

alone, alone, entirely alone; i have never changed

absence is that hole into which one pours everything close to hand; anger, hope, happiness, maudlin despondency–and yet the hole grows. it is without parallel and propels us into endless vacuum, thrusts us into expanse and forces the realization that we all rely on social networks, on relevance, adaptation and perspective to justify ourselves. absence is the moment of realization, where the gossamer strands that bind knowledge are individually, and with great care, unwoven. the potential for dismemberment becomes real and tangible, like waking, alone, in the middle of the night, reading a novel.

suicide bodies go missing

i killed myself today.
three times
inside out/obsolete.

the first time,
i went skydiving,
and deliberately never pulled the
red parachute cord
as i was falling,
the startling birds were migrating and
all i could think is how they made it splendid.

the second time,
i shot a bullet through my skull
in a classy designer-store.
later, i found they’d picked my pocket, and
paid for the damage
to the garments that my blood
and brains had splattered upon.

the third time,
i guzzled a new form of liquor
until i turned egg yolk.
motor oil’s all the same color when it’s mixed
with saliva
pouring down a clasped throat.

i hit the cement with a thunk,
but no one came running,
and that’s when i decided to get back up.

beaches hit by high pressures

the high pressure
murders the eager waves.
surfers sit aside their boards, depressed.

oh, glum souls!

a teen with small breasts
barely fits into her mothers bikini.
she will work harder today.

what color will get her noticed?

ausloschung

i miss the book i have just finished; i wish to wrap myself in its clouds.

part of it still rests within me, because i wanted it so much. i put it down hours ago, it calls from within the bag, it shouts from upon the shelf.

i love it and its blurred madness. a blunt consciousness wavering and threatening to blindly and beautifully savage its dislocations, all the time giving in to the veil of cluttered thought.

it is an unfolding; an unfolding, a destruction and a reassurance. there is no place for infancy, nor for mediocrity and balance; it throws malice at you and urges you to play with its delicate reams of hate. it has a lumbering precision and stumbling agility, argumentative and contradictory, it does not let me rest.

it is aware that its limitations are our limitations and that there can be no thought without limit of thought. comfort in failing, through honesty.

sentences are symphonies in the author’s arms and it talks in repetition and reinforcement that is not simply louder but better, while drifting without effort between memory and projection, language and situation, flexing a surging, deceptive anger without reprieve.

a resolution which resolves nothing, and explains everything; an end that is a beginning.

aquarium logic

we all want progress, but if you’re on the wrong road, progress means doing an about-turn and walking back to the right road; in that case, the man who turns back soonest is the most progressive.

–c s lewis

all our progress is an unfolding, like the vegetable bud, you have first an instinct, then an opinion, then a knowledge, as the plant has root, bud and fruit. Trust the instinct to the end, though you can render no reason.

–ralph waldo emerson

the only real progress lies in learning to be wrong all alone.

–albert camus

a child and a man stand next to the large glass screen of a viewing aquarium. in the aquarium are hundreds of types of fish, but only one catches the attention of the child.

a plankton’s tale

(originally uploaded by bullish1974.)

you may want to ask about the story of your birth, and i mean down to the tiniest details. you know some sinewy thread of meaning is in there somewhere, putting a new spin on the now utterly simplistic nature-nurture debate.