broadshateme

As a pessimist, smug from being right, dreams of her. Exposition allows for foreshadowing. Its happened before. No emotion has been original since Mesopotamia. She is the temple whore; prays at her sanctuary and is excommunicated. Puerile buffoonery, cannot forget: its happened before. A christian at a rock concert, a friend who plays the cello, a missing blanket and a lost cause. Stretches out, arms extending back and feet pointed; Doesnt fit the skin. Disgustingly biological, full of tubes and slimes, aware of the palpitations and peristalses. Not a cocoon for the soul, life is perception is the eyes and ears, nose and mouth. Without sense is without thought and is without man. Death is final. Its happened before. Blonde and vapid and greek letters across the chest, the girl took a circle whole and wore it on her finger; broke it and cast away the remnants. With concentration thought appear as puppets to the will.

I hate myself, I hate her, and I hate myself, breathes. It is useless and should be cast aside.

She has a grumpy face when she is calm, and when the beautiful smile is coaxed out it is all the more precious. Antenna of hair frame her round face, get caught in the corners of her mouth, fall across her eyes. Eyes, a spring sky when the weather is yet crisp but the promise of renewal is damp and wet and oleander. She glosses her lips and shortly wipes them clean absent-mindedly. She is not perfect, but wouldnt change her. She is full of herself and is in bed and full of some guy. It tears the skin like nettles, it fills the mind with fire and clouds the will with smoke. She disappears, she isnt here but she wont exit.

A cough and a bolts upright; pours a drink of cheap whiskey and generic cola, the red plastic cup is sticky with dried foam from before. Another clove alights with abject desperation. The smoke lingers about the footlights, unwilling to rise; a goth would be pleased. Adjusts the shirt and cracks the knuckles. Burns the hand and mutters profanities. Doesnt hurt but enjoys the pain. A safety pin driven through the webbing of the hand doesnt bleed. Poe drifts on with silky, sad, uncertain rustling. Nevermore.

No misery is more deserved than that returned for a good deed.

Chivalry is a horse that is dead and beaten. Alive as an illusion and inert as helium. Science makes us gods but God made science. Anthropocentric and flawed, dolphins swim and play and man has digital watches, war and money. Good memory breaks out a grin; rides the wave of others genius. Hopes hang in the sky in the exact way bricks dont, in the exact way bricks do, dust clouds rise from the floor at the weightless impact. Wont use the word love. Love is for greeting cards and candies. Thinks he could be happy with her; right or wrong. Wrong.