October is obviously fucking with my mood ... will return to normal soon.Please Stand By
*mwah!*
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A Taste For Slumming
We were like typewriter keys rushing to strike the paper,
only to be meshed together in one violent
click
Now stuck
in this tiny space, sharing foul air,
an omniscient hand, ready to rip us apart,
separate us
inky finger prints the only remaining clue
Wipers shoot up, slip down
The car motor's not running
but you are
small circles of water created on closed windows
close, and breathing thick moisture
your face lit up, ridiculous
in bright pink light from gazing neon signs outside
You sit near, tap your fingers along,
the steering wheel doesn�t give like the skin of a drum
but I do
The wipers flutter up, wind down
What are you listening to when you hit your fingers on that steering wheel?
What�s driving that beat? Is it the rain?
It�s not me, you stopped listening a long time ago and I stopped talking,
replacing myself with something else, kinder
Tolerant and forgiving
The wipers shoot up, splash down
You seemed dangerous at first; I could smell it
Motor oil & table salt, mixed together tasting black, like licorice
burnt and synthetic
I was willing to savor and
like most everything fucked up, it seemed like a good idea at the time
You spout ideas, I look beautiful,
and nod
Wipers slick up, patter down
I was ready to be vapid,
ready to stop the blood that pumps behind my eyes
forget my retinas, forget light reflects, creates truth,
proof
My senses, five of them raw and used up,
forgotten
I moved along quiet, groping, reaching, creating
illusionary, specific images to suspend satisfaction,
easing my way into you
Wipers soar up, flicker down
It was only a matter of time before I melted like a Dali clock
Surreal
now
dripping onto the soiled floorboard
mingling with filth and wet cigarette butts
yesterday's newspaper
Wipers screech up, slam down
Stop.
I am ready to take shape again.