Rosemary fire
Take advantage of the moments. Listen to the music. Write about the green and blue eyes -- final evidence of your own authorship, if on a small and specific scale.
You have studied the rubber fleshes. You have majored in tousled hairs. (But even then you little understood the absence of creases. Yours was a negligence of basements full of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. You could afford staining coffees and indeed cheesecakes.)
Do you see what happens when inspiration . . . ? And some days ago I censored myself, and did not write about thin gray teeth -- evidence of a separate upbringing and a different federal water. Gray teeth (Grey, like my son) and thin, and floppy fishlike fingers like half-grown larvae. Ego in a flash: no learner but quite learned, an imparter of experience.
Have you been beyond the curtain? Have you seen a certain desperation? In that dark is a galactic hunger: give me your rotten teeth and moth-eaten wool.
* * *
My punishment is wet walls and small doors. I'll face them again tonight.
* * *
Merman, here it is: I love you like the eyelid loves to close and the tongue loves to moisten the lip. In my dreams I float in your mile-long limbs. All the dirts are rinsed. The cold parts are made lukewarm. The hot parts are made lukewarm. Stem to stern I am your temperature.
* * *
Mystery -- and double-mystery -- we are old, old salts. I cannot maintain this deceit. We will return to the bologna. I blare the music, but the silence persists. We will separate our darks and lights and water our potatomato plants. We will aim our toes and calves at the same old holes and fasten the same old ceintures about our middles. Oh vulgar belt! Thing of such coincidence! Did the early beasts at the galaxy's rim design such pragmatism? Or did they not will or genetically splice ridges upon their bellies to support their heavy curtains?
* * *
I cannot end at ET BIO 101.
Most important is the rock-eater. The rock-eater and my competition, Marky Mark.
You, mystery, cannot sleep without me. Independent, creative, and fantastical as you are, you are a funny dimple in the earth without me there to experience you. (Even as I am not looking, you create impossibilities.) Ours may never be an expected romance, but even my baby-talk is more real than the buildings built under these damp clouds.
Yours is a . . . lavender incense . . . in a cedar room . . . in a sandalwood dimension.
You have studied the rubber fleshes. You have majored in tousled hairs. (But even then you little understood the absence of creases. Yours was a negligence of basements full of unfiltered Camel cigarettes. You could afford staining coffees and indeed cheesecakes.)
Do you see what happens when inspiration . . . ? And some days ago I censored myself, and did not write about thin gray teeth -- evidence of a separate upbringing and a different federal water. Gray teeth (Grey, like my son) and thin, and floppy fishlike fingers like half-grown larvae. Ego in a flash: no learner but quite learned, an imparter of experience.
Have you been beyond the curtain? Have you seen a certain desperation? In that dark is a galactic hunger: give me your rotten teeth and moth-eaten wool.
* * *
My punishment is wet walls and small doors. I'll face them again tonight.
* * *
Merman, here it is: I love you like the eyelid loves to close and the tongue loves to moisten the lip. In my dreams I float in your mile-long limbs. All the dirts are rinsed. The cold parts are made lukewarm. The hot parts are made lukewarm. Stem to stern I am your temperature.
* * *
Mystery -- and double-mystery -- we are old, old salts. I cannot maintain this deceit. We will return to the bologna. I blare the music, but the silence persists. We will separate our darks and lights and water our potatomato plants. We will aim our toes and calves at the same old holes and fasten the same old ceintures about our middles. Oh vulgar belt! Thing of such coincidence! Did the early beasts at the galaxy's rim design such pragmatism? Or did they not will or genetically splice ridges upon their bellies to support their heavy curtains?
* * *
I cannot end at ET BIO 101.
Most important is the rock-eater. The rock-eater and my competition, Marky Mark.
You, mystery, cannot sleep without me. Independent, creative, and fantastical as you are, you are a funny dimple in the earth without me there to experience you. (Even as I am not looking, you create impossibilities.) Ours may never be an expected romance, but even my baby-talk is more real than the buildings built under these damp clouds.
Yours is a . . . lavender incense . . . in a cedar room . . . in a sandalwood dimension.
posted by Paul G. McCurdy at 1:31 AM
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