Neuromechanics-- a body in revolt; a numbness at last encroaching upon lands long fatly settled into-- an array of profligate minima; and, aping the storybook corpse, an uprising from death like lecher-liches-- a cold, bony ass-grab upon our tutor, pain-- the Constant Governor.
The first lesson is that action is not possible. I've inherited this prairie fanned out to the horizons in undifferentiated, stultifying basicness. I prop myself up with what's in reach; reluctantly acknowledge the slump of my sluggish blood, buzzing as it squeezes through too-narrow vessels like specific instances of pedestrian particle flow, nicotine-thick as it bustles by the freaking spasms-- the hostile javelins of other fucking people and whatever they are trying to tell me. But what does the landlady really mean when she strains, ejecting her hard totems of impacted shit out her blabbing cloaca?
Anyway, I can't move-- I can't even stretch. I'm a useless thing now. A wasted tool. All gestures-- all pretenses have been peeled back, laying bare the glistening network like global investment capital flow.
The second lesson is that there is no one else. Solipsism is the one true philosophy. Blessed are those who comfort the widows of loved lost ones. Blessed are all others, orphans of thought-- from the sable minxes tugging the awareness backwards in time-- bunched comforter eyes, staring and reforming and staring-- to the genius of "Only You," crooned by red-eyed towers in everyone's sky, in my sky, the grinding of the sky into every unquiet night. Maybe just knowing I could still be satisfied is comfort enough, even if satisfaction never comes. And why would it. No one else ever shuts the fuck up for long enough.
Anyway, I can't move-- I can't even stretch. I'm a useless thing now. A wasted tool. All gestures-- all pretenses have been peeled back, laying bare the glistening network like global investment capital flow.
The second lesson is that there is no one else. Solipsism is the one true philosophy. Blessed are those who comfort the widows of loved lost ones. Blessed are all others, orphans of thought-- from the sable minxes tugging the awareness backwards in time-- bunched comforter eyes, staring and reforming and staring-- to the genius of "Only You," crooned by red-eyed towers in everyone's sky, in my sky, the grinding of the sky into every unquiet night. Maybe just knowing I could still be satisfied is comfort enough, even if satisfaction never comes. And why would it. No one else ever shuts the fuck up for long enough.
I've come out of the latest round of divorce curses like an abortion slurry, each clot and clump a bit of baby, shimmering in a wet blue surface sheen at each static discharge-- each blob briefly flaring epileptic as it's dumped into plastic and sealed away.
Don't be discouraged. There were only ever two lessons.
Don't be discouraged. There were only ever two lessons.
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