3/5

you make a mistake tonight

I have a light beer to apologize for you

sometimes I think a child

should know better

did you think I knew the door was locked?

rattle rattle

I do it again

rattle rattle

should know better

--

born a lover

has look of

has like of

death a demon

try a wife

--

i'm supposed to know how to write but am too violent to make use of words. there is no language for loss, and loss is almost insignificant when it is communicated. confusion, to say the least, is the backbone of the dream. whatever unconscious content i won't obey consciously becomes paved by image and sound while i sleep. nearly a week ago i was struggling with emotional pain while dreaming. it seemed to be i was trying to talk, mumbling, pleading in the pathetic manner i do when i feel someone is about to leave me. my own sounds were being spoken to me, burying themselves further down from where they came. it obviously wasn't unconscious content. i woke up, searing pain the color of a swordfish slicing my brain. confusion is the only true terror for the ego; what is beneath consciousness must be destroyed or altered to be so terribly insignificant because it cannot be understood. it must be demeaned, poked at and prodded until it is unrecognizable -- or worse, lauded. nobody is idealized by preference. the audience is not pressured this way, poised to create. instead it is a weak, compensatory response: creation based upon deliverance. for months now, i ended the terminally ill relationship i had with myself to experience another virtually retarded form of intimacy. this time it was packaged with promise, power, and shades of devotion i never knew were available to me. i had lost all my friends up to this point by erecting myself against emotional servitude. i obeyed myself in a manner i no longer see as bravery, but an embrace of cowardice. i made my solitude my signature, my loneliness my most perfected profession and my body my most cherished possession. i bathed regularly, multiple times a day, with candles, dissociatives, alcohol, cocteau twins, anais nin. i was walking alone outside listening to bad rap music and burning my environments to become closer to myself. then he outdid me. for months on end i worked towards learning how to envy, compare, and enmesh, knowing i naturally could not stand the reek of meat in competition. my self pity was my bride, i was no angel, but i found weaponry vulgar. i was delicate before in my indestructibility but learned to reason with compassion and forsake any and every aspect of my metallic identity. somewhere inside me, i am laughing at the person i've become. no part of me will ever pretend to be anyone but a lover -- but never again could i shield myself from my propensity to be a lover of all things. self preservation embarrasses me to no end because it strengthens the relationship between two ill wills: identity and reservation. i happily commune.

mar 24 2014 ∞
jan 28 2019 +