It Mek
never yet been a flower on the thing
never
just greens. Inedible. Eat lily greens.
All 'these' years he says. Unquenchable violence. Womb of the historical gaze. Is this why he lies? A little capsule of world consuming pain vomit-popped out the mouth in unremarkable salivant passing. It falls a little wet and a little melted-sticky onto the upholstery, where it bonds.
"What a mess," V__ said, wiping our stain with a paper towel. "What a mess. Because what does a husband tell a wife? What are the limits? The rumors of war get louder. And all the years I heard about it never believed it, really. Really. I never believed. Attributed it to some kind of low level something not achieved by them who kept harping about that so-called war. Something something, as they say. And now the rumors thump the ground like pile drivers in a circle around us. And I think they might be, and I think now they always were, my heartbeat. When we first spoke we set fire to the whole hillside, the entire hayfield ... all the corn, the morrel bed boiled like a cauldron as the ivy and pansies and cattails and clover cooked around it and the trunks of the maples turned black with their soot. Cardinals sang over the smoke like over incense. But after all these years now, we go back and the place has been reclaimed and there's no trace of us. All grown again. Two fires now. And us in the city."
"What about what's ours, what we've made, here, together. What about this?"
I put his hand on me.
"I understand. I know. I understand. I love it, us, this and I love you. But I still crave the space we burned open, the fiery space we made. Not its memory. Its action. Why can't I say that?"
"You can say it. Whatever you want you can say. But you don't see it. You don't see it or me. It's just changed its shape. It's still here. But you don't see. You don't see you buried me in there, and let it all grow over me. And now you-"
Written down like it sounded the sentence - the last sentence - reads a couple of ways.
Old greasenasty clock on the kitchen wall in his house of the future. Always. Motherfucking always.
I pulled the sticky capsule up and gave it a lick and put it on his tongue with my fingers. And I closed his mouth and he swallowed it down.
If A axis is this, and B axis is this, the whole thing ignites. That's how architecture is made.
never
just greens. Inedible. Eat lily greens.
All 'these' years he says. Unquenchable violence. Womb of the historical gaze. Is this why he lies? A little capsule of world consuming pain vomit-popped out the mouth in unremarkable salivant passing. It falls a little wet and a little melted-sticky onto the upholstery, where it bonds.
"What a mess," V__ said, wiping our stain with a paper towel. "What a mess. Because what does a husband tell a wife? What are the limits? The rumors of war get louder. And all the years I heard about it never believed it, really. Really. I never believed. Attributed it to some kind of low level something not achieved by them who kept harping about that so-called war. Something something, as they say. And now the rumors thump the ground like pile drivers in a circle around us. And I think they might be, and I think now they always were, my heartbeat. When we first spoke we set fire to the whole hillside, the entire hayfield ... all the corn, the morrel bed boiled like a cauldron as the ivy and pansies and cattails and clover cooked around it and the trunks of the maples turned black with their soot. Cardinals sang over the smoke like over incense. But after all these years now, we go back and the place has been reclaimed and there's no trace of us. All grown again. Two fires now. And us in the city."
"What about what's ours, what we've made, here, together. What about this?"
I put his hand on me.
"I understand. I know. I understand. I love it, us, this and I love you. But I still crave the space we burned open, the fiery space we made. Not its memory. Its action. Why can't I say that?"
"You can say it. Whatever you want you can say. But you don't see it. You don't see it or me. It's just changed its shape. It's still here. But you don't see. You don't see you buried me in there, and let it all grow over me. And now you-"
Written down like it sounded the sentence - the last sentence - reads a couple of ways.
Old greasenasty clock on the kitchen wall in his house of the future. Always. Motherfucking always.
I pulled the sticky capsule up and gave it a lick and put it on his tongue with my fingers. And I closed his mouth and he swallowed it down.
If A axis is this, and B axis is this, the whole thing ignites. That's how architecture is made.
posted by J. Neptune at 11:21 AM
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