mal au coeur part 2 - winter

Of she and - . The dodo of civilization, the Marianne of modern consequence, three of you in me, freedom birds lip “crazy”, [speech. open. pounds.] feel your new lunar pigeon pulse crookedly beat, you’re no skeleton-powered culture, no business modernist; one musty window, one don’t-leave December, down with the future, for Baedeker, for poetaster, ending bubble of ‘i’, in my world of you a death, spit up skyward for half an hour. Face it you’re a syndrome, and with that we divorce, mutated. Arrive in decay in astronomy in willowy collaged biography. Touch becomes unclear binary, becomes meteor found east of bones, genuinely greedy. “Oh NO, Never exaggerated, never my unfairly referenced hell, I of hospitals, I who sings daily with fools, NO never I.” Joy, furniture, my own bohemian grouse they are all disappearing – that is to say, this is me, this is me at my best, this is me in my best light, in my sporadic light, my one blonde flight, subdued wounded sickening, late elephante beauty lustre, your clumsy wingbeat too. Blood, cut-ins. A preadator with a sure, close art. Naturalized ungainly, got no bronchial starting energy, guess we’ve been disillusioned since 1980, comedy disambiguation misspoken in Paris, with 8 Leonard Cohen songs including the one that goes ‘you’re living for nothing now’, i.e. we’re both doomed. You’ve gotten a bit smug and wanky, kodachrome princess of the pavement, let’s go queer, knee-deep in Bardot mousse, looking at you, little slippery eel in a planetary blouse it’s like so mistreated, in your mid-sixties now and sleeping rough through fall of oral majesty. Cold-circuited almost out of London at the point where I was cocked ready for ambitious leaps into yellow-beaked love of a kind. Educated horizontally, hydrocephalitic with cynicism of all things, stealing expensive soap with you but those days are over, not even on the phone. “I want to fuck and it’s my big dick. I want to write and it’s my big pen.” Thrusting remnants of a mouth, living destroyed publicly and taking on the gravitational role of ‘Blow Up’, noire hurt prettiest on camera, a neurofibromatosis in forever – limited ‘i’ was tense in lyric. Caught you on film, serrated with fondness I stood holding pure glass energy, the sky and grass having just enough space for you and flightlessness, poverty and physics all depleted even now when we are just hypothesized remains. What January killed, February might understand. Dr. Beautiful in a bête blue bikini, our last commercial on earth, the quiver of estates frescoed tiredly on laundrette walls, gasping for your sake. $1 of junk energy, magnetic yolk theory of possibility, my morbid was digested apathy, an x-ray void, a blue-grey wonderland destroyed, arose fat with clik-clak urgency like pavlovians to your scent. Self-parody of day-to-day living, fiancé links feeling to river-bed aquaintance: Woolfian fearlessness. Option #2 is bourgeois comfort: brokenheart syndrome pizzaboxed and heated on category 8 for 13 minutes.