BLISS
music in my head, homeless guys on the street. parking and daylight and softcore porn trying to be discreet. I’ve got something else on my mind: dark sets of paradise erected inside.
tell me what part of the story this is. tell me the rhythm, tell me the rhythm in the rhythm. tell me then where it waits, insistent and haunting and full of all the things that would make someone want to say fuck you to some random on the street, for no other reason other than that person happened to be in the right place at the right time, and that the person should feel congratulated, should have his next drink on the house, should the house have his next drink and not whatever eyes and neck are next.
you had that story in you once, I knew it. it’s 43rd street now and I’m so way so far gone that you wouldn’t believe this. but it can’t be a letter on this street, because letters written in heads and never sent are from home, rather something I’m walking away from. Something I’m walking from away from. ashes pile up around an alarm clock from Sunday morning, a lost then found bottle cap, then, then, a walk and coffee and Sunday morning for real, in the middle of the afternoon, people waiting on benches and the Sunday times and a found park. inside of this.
inside of this: a rigid paranoia, lyrics about war, loving it, loving it. the solitude, the chair of the world, seeing the world from inside four walls, two years, two ears, two eyes and two acres of skin with which to receive you. ah, yes, passion once again. we’re both a part of it now.
From here on in it gets real interesting. All things start and end in bars. We all know it. My time with you ended when did it end. and now, bliss.
the body spasms
as the new new thing blots the mind and the sky
in a hand as big as my mother's mind
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