The television implies that one should ‘un-package sexual notions’ not me. That’s fashion. We shuffle through an arid landscape of remote controls while the ridiculously cruel April wind stabilises reception – true, there are only truths, now. And people are better off with censorship. Think of your neighbour emerging to inspect the lawn. A beautiful girl fumbles for her keys rocking back and forth like some mechanical part half-effective in some aluminium smelting plant: I don’t know, pepsi cans & empty dog-tins. Ever and always catching her image torn apart by fly-screen and Perspex (I’m there catching that instant, glowing with this halogenic intensity I once courted) at the wrong moment. Sit down. Forget the gloomy knowledge of distorted positions, in between atoms that are glued together in things like blowflies. There’s that drone of guitar as knocked by a cat, or a small child. There would be a glory in rendering that in a more opulent way, some process opposed to the vagaries of talk…or even silence.
A quiet five minutes and another eight lines about a favourite personal possession; but it’s okay to become a blue crayon at times. A game of inanimate charades. And I can’t think of anything more apt, better. Sometimes I conjecture: maybe if we were to drive west, in love, and hold on tightly at that spot near the sea, or somewhere similar, then feelings would all = what you say. We could morph at will into singular masses of waxy stuff on sawtooth paper + black ink words of something to remember. There there. There’s no extra-features to all this and you’re plainly asleep (a paper tent of weariness) so it makes sense to trash the impulses for the night, compel myself into the rest of time. You’ll spot the beautiful girl and that’s enough.