“It gets better.” If life keeps getting or going at all, getting better is reserved for the most depressed or the most in need. Who qualifies? A sign glimmers in the distance telling you (calming, comforting) that things get better. That “it” gets better. You are traveling outside of yourself, inside of the world, in the correct direction. This revelation is reserved for the optimist: life will always be traveling upward for the optimist, despite whatever truth there may be which exists on the insides of the tunnel, the bottom of the bottle, in front of their very blindfolded, even more-so, very closed eyes.
I would like to believe that I exist outside of myself in the world. Stringing together sentences for years, forming some tunnel through which I can escape into a land of riots and of fruit that is beginning to ripen off of trees as I stroll out of the darkness onto the other side. The other side, where the artists live, where you cannot live.
What cannot you believe? The man sleeping here is called the Untitled Man.
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11. May 2012
..and when you look at me, do you see somebody else?
“Go on take everything. Take everything. Take everything. Take everything.”
All of her future lovers are assembled together, like toy soldiers of fortune, scattered across the playground of her memory. She’s bringing out the heavy artillery; the bombs of instability; the heavy munition of fire-in-the-hole addiction — all of those violent sentiment that she thought were in remission.
Except him… He’s guerrilla warfare at large, leading the onslaught’s charge. He’s the knife aimed at her back… just the next violent savage, who wants to gut her in the sack. He’d like to cut her down to little bite-sized pieces, and eat her like a snack. He enjoys the fact she’s crafty, and can counter his attack… but she’s really just another contrary conquest, to contest. He knows, eventually, she’ll take her clothes off — by compulsion, or request.
All of her future lovers are lined up like dominos, novelty pieces that she arranges into rows. With a turn of the torso, a flex of the hip, a rotation of the thigh… they all fall down, victim to the cruelty of her psoas. They arrive just to come… and then cry as they go.
But he’s not a lover… He’s just playing a game for the glory, affection, attention, and fame. He lights the board on fire, inviting her to lick the flame. So when she’s scorched to bone, he can spread her legs; spread her ashes; spread the blame.
Once he’s used her up, he’ll forget all about her. Wouldn’t she just do the same?
I told you from the start, just how this will end… When I get what I want, I never want it again.
