death is caught between my lips and
i’m imagining how you’d light it
if i asked in French or
in your favorite shirt or
His cock was out, lightly resting on his boxers. It wasn’t as if it were muted, subtle, or muted. It was simply out, unaroused and unmoved. His mind was absorbed by the book he was reading. The night would pass unnoticed. One can never be in a state of calmness after reading a book. And once he had closed the book and let it carelessly rest on his wooden desk he sat their reflecting on what he had just read. And although he sat there in an equable manner, deceivingly so, his mind was racing with thoughts. He was, regardless of its success, internalising what he had just gone though.
He finally got up and rifled for his pack of cigarettes. Where is my lighter, he thought. Quickly with measured movement searched his pockets and found them both. He lit one. The silence in the room was stupidly obvious to anyone watching him, but for him it was filled with the internal thoughts of his mind. There will be no sleeping tonight.
It is not about you. In compelling solitude it is hard to think otherwise. Having his friends around, or people he slightly cared for forces him to neglect the incontestable truth that it IS about me—him. How being sociable is a contrast, he thought.
Time has passed. Driving on the motorway with the radio off allowed for time to think more, again. The buzzing sound of the wind and the constant sound of the motor dropped to the background of his existence, floating. Friends as another self is an excuse to not deal with other selfs.
Crossing over the bridge towards fog
temperature gauge change
driving habits altered— cannot see.
rules all the same
played differently still.
Easy to spot the outsider, the night goer not from here
wear nothing to protect
them from the grey layer that settles the city.
Skirts for easy poking and flashing lift with the swift breeze
their arms crossed, hugging themselves.
legs shaved to shine— outshine city lights
now they look like a misplaced twinkling
toy in an organised dumped of romantic mess.
fear not they tell themselves
it’s an honest misjudgement
Outsiders not from here.
a target is present only if the
shooter is aware. it can
move about, and divert.
the shooter may
forget, distance himself from
it, and perceive
but he senses the initial
point of disjunction
as a conjunct of his
the target is haunting,
the target remains.
Eric, you have your own life
What other thing is like that — a hat!
And in a hat I have found that I could wear one
What people don’t understand about being a genius is
Is that it is hard
It creeps inside of you and you can’t relate
The world is the thing you cannot master
You really can’t
You try to work for people
You let the people down