Fruit From The Tree

11/30/2008 at 2:14 AM

it's cold, nothing works in the box you live in, no lights no, no heat no, the steps are close. it starts with the first memory, the formation of "other", you wake up on your parent's comforter, you are three years old, it is midafternoon late summer and everything seems different although you can't remember how it was before you woke, maybe it's the absence of this memory that makes you unhappy, but you are unhappy for the first time. the trees are not the same in front of your house, the tile on your kitchen floor feels colder, you are alone, you are aware of being alone, you know that you are alone, it is the beginning of your life. for a moment it is peaceful and isolate, the emotional purity of this sense of absence is almost comforting, light streams in through the slits of blue shutters, you stare at the patch of carpet it lights, you are noticing that you are hungry, hungry yes, you must find your mother, you are hungry. you can't find her though and panic takes you into it's umbra arms. you will never forget this panic, crab apple trees, this is not the place you knew, you didn't know a place, psychic resonance, you are awake. "fruit from the tree of knowledge"

0 comments

Razorblade, Eye Dropper

11/23/2008 at 2:06 AM

because that i think you're beautiful makes my heart wicked, i hear the velcro coming undone and it sounds to me like popping grease in the pan, pink flesh turning sick yellow and spitting thick white globs of fat. optimism as revolution, a boat wasn't coming in, simon and garfunkel ought to be dead already their music background in another film - "classy babe" - claiming she'd compromise herself sexually, under her breath, for the corporate structure, under her breath, or maybe you're a doctor? red sheets and "the good life" claims another mind they don't think they're in love they are in love they don't think that the times are changing but the river is unstoppable there is no damming the flow. a violent addict watching the well-dressed women roll hips down walnut, starts snowing again, her name was avery wasn't it? aborted eyes practically black and dull like marbles with a look which says "my word means nothing" just watching fingering the knife in his pocket. do you like jazz? are you naked under that coat? is that your dog? he has collected his share of scrap for the day and fresh on the junk what is your name my evil hero shall we call you kirkpatrick? it is time for - god - she says, under her breath, time for god to refresh your memory. see, it was all so close to you as an infant, reality was yet unformed, language an indistinct series of colors, consciousness obscure to the desires of the shapeless soul. amorphic bag of a habit ain't it though? this body this mind this self, bit of an addiction you have don't you? in one pocket a photograph, in the other a razorblade and an eye-dropper.

0 comments