We
belong to a party where the champagne has been drunk free and done with. We
tumble in a turnabout where there is no exit, no natural recourse to our
driving, not mindlessly, just without a remembrance of guilt. The family in the
lily pool of entertainment embellishes the stubborn means that makes means
lacking. The heavy petting hinges out an acute bravado, one that makes monsters
of those we love. From Vesuvius to the shack story of speech, we are still
stuck in our own selves, however ashen those words may become. This is not to
imagine a society in falseworks or furnishing the world like a Rousseau-ian
glove. No, no many is so pat a pattern of touchstones. The trample of hooves
stood near and dear over me, nevertheless makes one succumb. The quotidian
gestural nuance of indexes and faces leaves such matters un-absolvable. The
structures of absence leave nothing left but absence and the fact of so remains
so. I still call absence, by being a word, being a thing, to be nothing but a
general assumption that nothing means something. If we are left with nothing
but the village logic of another absence makes our nothing greater, we are left
with nothing but our own futures, as hollow and fragile as dust. But dust
remains a substance of furniture we blot out, wipe away, out of tidiness, of
order, of general health and cleanliness. The permanence of what we wipe away
renders us incognizant of what is there, that nothing can be wiped away either
by cloth or sword or swipe. At our party, the modernity of knowledge only
causes us to lose sight even further, rendered in miniscule details that merely
wipe away the nothing that we’ve always felt we lacked. We’ve burned books in
order to bond with the history we know not well. We glean all material out of
habit and sugar-coated spite, rendering the fiction that we have some choice
nervously approaching defeat. The domestic markets of sublime are shaded with
naïve symbolism that is tested in order to not be defeated by purposed
psychology. Save we presuppose our silhouette as an angular attraction, the
reflection of that above, our sturdy structures of pain remain effortless. We
press our sex against a glass so contoured to seem fitting, only waiting for a
reflection. Instead, we receive neither glad-handing reflection nor connection,
only a cold base with which we are able to achieve some sort of friction
however much a fiction it might be. Our
fixations, on rubbing, stabbing, flecking, fondling, stroking, scraping, are so
aggregate to the cause of the problem that it makes causes obsolete. We drape
the swag with enough cause to cause cancer in our most healthy absolutes. The
tum-drum-drum-drum of a ninety minute film can create a fantasy out of light
and dark and yet still leave us in the theater, in the dark. We survive on the
sidewalks only because they are against the walks. How a culturally
malfunctioning reposition of 19th century thought can make life
easier, or, as such, better to attain. In the script we follow, description as
dream, as never remembered wholly. I said to my government of ligatures: are we there yet? We pause, we sustain the
frustration there within, we find the comfort in our creature. We recapitalize
our not knowing with nothing, a substance we all agree can be the substance we
can agree upon. Our known compounds are not known enough to forfeit our
forgeries of our own spent upon gorge. To wit:
the theater has no wit and is, therefore, a failure, at least in
traditionally comedic terms. The essence of our being, our other nothingness,
is a tragedy that we rise with the implicit implication that there is a hero
somewhere there. We go bust in our hand jobs to minor infractions of frequency.
We always decide a deliciousness in terms of finding another to do the feeding.
This isn’t news, this is just the cheese against the grain of whole wheat
crackers. Any shift in tone is clearly intentional. I once heard a Hebrew say
something, and it was always a verb. I saw a nigger standing on the same line
as I was, only it was dark so I didn’t see him when I punched him in the face.
That faggot only become so once he left the room and then he really got fucked
up the ass. That chick was a good lay, with juicy breasts with a side of gravy.
And Asians are always easy, the last bastion of unquestioned racism, so go fuck
yourself if you don’t like it and you probably do because you’re a negro faggot
jew who likes to watch, so there. As anyone else, we try it for a fit. But
finding we’ve gained to much weight, we end up calling fat-ass. Our health be
damned. We think of design as decoration, but it’s just our lives, splayed out
as art (pretending). We echo the echo of our hummed lullabies, like the worst
person we could be. It isn’t unusual to be too apathetic to be suicidal;
perhaps it’s even the perpetual state nowadays. Banking on limitless, the
scuttle surrounds each action like a breast around a nipple. Such is the burden
of growing up a masturbating erect. Imagine every beautiful photograph within
the context of the photographer’s own image, that of himself. Now picture the
photograph. It accumulates in a tint of shivering. Now picture the photograph
in the context of feeling, felt at this exactly moment. Now try to feel what
the photograph is trying to convey, setting aside your feeling at this exact
moment. Try this again for a week. After a week, look at the photograph, again
in the context of the photographer, allowing for an accumulation of feeling
spent over the past week. What has changed? What has stayed the same? Now
picture an absence of the picture and
continue to feel the feelings accumulated over the past week. Now picture the
photographer.