honestly i do agree with the fact that i am tired
i have an extensive collection of early americana records. i have many credenzas carved from exotic woods. i employ a staff of 40 to open my drapes each morning. my foyer’s walls are painted in gold leaf. i am a very extravagant man.
Watershed map of a small region in northeastern China in the style of Takeshi Murata.
i know you’ve always wanted a man in pleated pants
here is your chance
i’m on a pleated platter
all this time you’ve never loved me
but have you seen today’s pleats?
they lead up to a narrow waste
you’re just a bag of bones
a daughter of bloodshed
who doesn’t know how to age
the front swoop of your gelled hair is
a brutal assault on a memory of love
you’d plead for robert e. lee’s love
then disown him when lastly a shot was fired
write what you know. right what you know. write about loneliness. right your loneliness. you commence your willingness to discuss, to disaggregate reasons why you digress from love. you want to reciprocate but you stumble rearwards alone. you type s-i-l-e-n-c-e and l-o-v-e and you s-t-o-p. you want to be in a picture smoking a cigarette riverside. that could be your memory from when you were in love. you stare with envy at others’ stone written words. borne of bedrock preternaturally. what a perilous recognition: others love and write about their love like some of those words are in french. those words quicksilver join with kerning decreasing. their serifs intermingling enjambing willfully conjunctioned. you spectate. your loneliness is on the other hands. your hands in the empty space between being and action. between the fact of wanting to love and the act of loving. you’ve lost track of your loneliness. your loneliness is all encompassing. your loneliness waterboards the qwerty. your voice alone and always alone and in love with the world it is alone in. you make yourself write a little joke to forget about being alone. your loneliness as that chestful of still sparks. to be a lone love is moss-covered marble.