No one ever asks to be loved. They beg for it. In absent skirts and mediocre penises. The same way wormholes simultaneously talk to the future and the past we do. In rips and contortions of the flesh that is conditioned to move us through it.
Millions of cells. Tiny alarm clocks ringing under our clothes. Moments been. Or soon to. Good nights in tiny bottles Sips of mouthwash he called Rumplemints.
Strange nightgowns I fell asleep. Woke up undressed.
Can't go back. Paradoxes prevail. Can't go forward. Nowhere yet to go. Left with now. Sacrosanct progression. You slow the world down and you're in the future. Speed it up and the past is yours. I do it all the time, it just never sticks.
You take your pills. Learn to love again. Between episode of Star Trek. People you'll only have for a little while. Brief rifts in the space time continuum. But that doesn't matter.
Somewhere. Some place. One of you has gone back there. And knows how it feels.
Tuesday
3/18/2008 01:48:00 AM
I've remarked quite often in your writings.Some words drips in erotism , while others repulse. this thing between pull and push....is it how you live it.
used to be.
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