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Description
.a read.

.

this pile of shite
stuck together bits of vids
paintings
      others words whole or paraphrased
my newsprint cut out characters
a faux abduction kidnapper note
       my slow motion suicide message
to you
           the
       uncaring
,

.

I could fall in love with you, so of course, I did.

.

.

It is the sense of noise, as present in the hushed hallways of an oathed monastery or silence-sworn nunnery, that impending state of awaiting air’s vibration. Hotels of despair contain it, their padded floors and quiet snick latch rubber dampened doors; the hotels not yet occupied by destitute government sponsored derelicts or women with families under protection. That waiting for arrival of vibration silence, held breathes in stalking killer closets. Last gasp sigh silences.

It is a quiet of discomfort, of soft anxiety, not a normal sort with life’s background noises of comparison that is to be found in homes in busy places or top level penthouse apartment suites in high rises of the well endowed. There is the neutral to it, the non, the never present and yet; and yet.
Even unattended weekday churches do not possess this quality of absence of sound.
.

.

this body's war with itself

now moment, each moment

tear in mutilation

dozing off standing

jerking awake with tosses

horseflies biting in my brain

.

.

I was used to watching languages and tribes consume each other, the spread of structure’s architectures, shared habits, cultures. I saw the bald heads become haired and their faces bearded as the regions became Semitic. Culture is cannibalistic you know. But now, there is a growling ocean of bland; diversity being the latest term for not accepting differences.

And we are awash in that. Someone mentioned that if they saw a middle aged man using a current teen phrase they'd slam him themselves. I simply wondered if that girl didn't understand that one-day she also might be ancient.
.

the peculiar of us

our dialects of background shadows

buildings familial linkages

now just dry text-book history

.

.

witches never love

that's the myth, the lie

like all of you they do

what cannot be done

is for them to be loved

that's the trade we make

.

.

don't worry
it's only a momentary infatuation
you'll forget
and i'll remember you
.

.

What can I possibly have left to lose?
No one pauses to consider that.
None, either in avoidance, fight, or flight.

.

There is a film premised upon that theme, that single theme. It's not a great film until you find yourself living it.

.
.

the walk-ins get a glance
a rapid evaluation based upon
         observation

the laughing groups
get stenciled prognostication

       ones that come
single late shadowed worn
        seeking

find her caresses of gift
       alternatives
paths not considered
unseen

           openings

.

if you're a customer you cannot expect me to go "aww" and "oh my" and commiserate with you over your life line's splintering; expecting me to mean it. i'm being paid to say it.

but

if i'm in love with you

and
you ask me for a read

i'll feel your life's paths

and

that hurt in me for you
is real

.

© Amanda 2015
Image: "—†ìŒ-2-ë³µêµ¬ë¨-1" by © 2015