Doing one thing at a time was my new years resolution. Often, I am actually doing nothing but imagining doing one million things. So it’s hard to know when to punish myself. Lately, clothing has taken on a metaphysical quality in my sexual fantasies. The outfit blends with the fact that I am a genius. I am in complete control of my creative energy and strength, my image is made of sand and no grain is out of place. My thoughts are organized, projected on the wall in neat categories.
I know I should be writing towards a specific group of you, but I want to say everything with no target. An address is merely a chiseling of output. Initially, an address is any reason you can find. My erotic orientation and productivity are wet and tangled. I imagine fucking you slowly, with my pussy. I am fucking your dick with my pussy, sometimes it's just like that. I am slowly moving up and down and its working, you don’t need it to be fast or different. I’m gonna make you cum like this, I am in control.
Singing the well trodden melodies of my youth, I welcome angst again and again. Our awkward, intergenerational evenings. Have I told you how I love to see a man submit to ecstasy? Old songs, new scenarios. It would be a gorgeous fresco, but I’d want it to look ancient already, faded pink and concrete. Time passage makes me 2D, my antics have become dinky. The music remains a sign post, a piece of wood nailed to another piece of wood.
I am opposed to the idea of not being depressed. I don’t believe anyone who isn’t. I also think its the worst thing to be. So one must honestly pretend they are not. It’s an issue of scales, a balance of light and dark. But my vision will blur, and take my knowing with it. Mood swings or mergings. I lean toward the light and see darkness as its heart. I lean towards the dark and recall lightness as its reason. I cannot begin to see the scale as we know it. The scale is a silver braid, hovering, gleaming, as if through a greasy lens. Specificity itself has become the poor image.
Choice too, is all bought and shredded, constantly recalled. Now an awful, dripping chore caught in its own ghost. Theme as hollow shell. I want to run into you on the big street. Do you think about me? Before 5 pm. From 6 am, I am awaiting your thoughtful apology. How strange the events that have transpired. I keep returning to the glass bowl of stunning candy, revealing itself to me as the face of genius.
Maybe love does need one idiot. An idiot with a penchant for losing oneself in the dark pool of the other. The word unrequited has existed since the 1520’s. Eclipse means abandon. And still, I long for another crumb. Preferably, an exclamatory one. Who is the idiot? I am and am not, flattened by all that arises. Like I said, a very crazy week of shadows.
Out of touch with material and therefore consequence. I avoid my art, manifestation rates plummet. I look away from birth, hoard ideas until they lose their details. I know I need to be reminded of something else. I suppose the medicine can be found near the wound, eventually slipping to simultaneity, just like the light and the dark. Ask the spirits how to travel like this, with such a wide and unbiased net.
He said to imagine coming back to the world after death— would we not be overcome with sentimentality for every menial, tedious thing? The stove, the toilet that won’t flush. Life! Radiating from everything in the picture. A soft flash of you, looking perfect. The next song I know less well. Drawings of what’s in the way, a fear that inverts living. I glimpse the purity: we’re born we die.
