Out beyond the sound of I-5 I hear the first rooster, pQkkl.
Now, it's a few nights later and I continue to ride that push and its pull is stronger than electricity. I fall into all of it the abyss, open armed and familiar, welcomes me back. I hear the pull of sweet hot metal and feel the longing of the incomplete inside curve of brands on my right arm.
I wonder at times what I have begun, unthinking, only how many cycles must I suffer until Hegel, appeased, relinquishes his cold fingered throat hold on the perpetual up down of binary assimilation.
The big piece, perhaps the biggest, is the one missing from my heart. It might be horses, it might be jesus; it could be cocaine or a fuck in the park like a sunday afternoon. These lips they long for honey from the comb
I fall into the abyss of my own awareness and it is half-mad on a sheer butte of pent genius. Molten veins and the thought that perhaps someday this heart will explode into tens of millions of pieces as our star is engulfed in the fury of its own demise and I sit here, now, and pretend to give a fuck.
That there, somewhere, is meaning-- I am to find in some arms or some distant embrace that pulls nothing but skin from the form of flesh. I am heartbroken to know who it is that I am truly, to have that singular and utmost private conversation, know my own embrace. It sounds destitute and scarce, I mean it not to. It is just this heart of mine, always longing ever for home and I am here, so alien and lonely.
I am with so few words of any meaning. All, thankfully has been lost thanks to Saussure in an independent search for meaning separate.
No matter, this slays
I tire; I refuse to accept lack of meaning
Lack of meaning is limp dick in my mouth.
I wonder at times what I have begun, unthinking, only how many cycles must I suffer until Hegel, appeased, relinquishes his cold fingered throat hold on the perpetual up down of binary assimilation.
The big piece, perhaps the biggest, is the one missing from my heart. It might be horses, it might be jesus; it could be cocaine or a fuck in the park like a sunday afternoon. These lips they long for honey from the comb
I fall into the abyss of my own awareness and it is half-mad on a sheer butte of pent genius. Molten veins and the thought that perhaps someday this heart will explode into tens of millions of pieces as our star is engulfed in the fury of its own demise and I sit here, now, and pretend to give a fuck.
That there, somewhere, is meaning-- I am to find in some arms or some distant embrace that pulls nothing but skin from the form of flesh. I am heartbroken to know who it is that I am truly, to have that singular and utmost private conversation, know my own embrace. It sounds destitute and scarce, I mean it not to. It is just this heart of mine, always longing ever for home and I am here, so alien and lonely.
I am with so few words of any meaning. All, thankfully has been lost thanks to Saussure in an independent search for meaning separate.
No matter, this slays
I tire; I refuse to accept lack of meaning
Lack of meaning is limp dick in my mouth.
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