Saturday, March 10, 2012

Title

This will be a monologue. This will not be addressed to anyone. Not a letter. Not a permission. Nothing promiscuous. Nothing suave. Words, unbound by reception - untampered by consensus. Grey grounds. Me on top.
Enter.
In conversations with my naked, I light my cigarettes with a torch. Synopsis and the plural of that, of my future. Future disimpregnated from its connotations. Synopsis and the synonyms of that, now. Now, reenacted off prior unconscious drifts. Drafts of ..mitigated hazard.
Enter.
Sand hips, as rough as rough.
Enter.
Choreography, autonomous. Disregarding physical attributes of vacuum. Reattributing vacuum. Tailored reluctance, custom-fit aggressive images, toned, retoned, utter flamboyance, eyes open, eyes close, repatterned blinks, repatterned exhales, repatterned inhales and their respective sounds, tailored, custom, fit.
Enter.
The books I burn. The books I read halfway. The books I read. The books I write. The books I fuck. All books.
Enter.
Time, around me. The end is near, only in relativity. I cease to exist in proportion. Burnt. God complex, none, in its basic form neuronal, in its transport, static. As simple as simple comes. Irrelevant. Irrelative. Excluded, I enter.
As the best is saved for last, last pretends to exist. Hollow, the past does not. The best dies. Dies in plan. Dies in section, immaterial, nonexistent, my cigarettes, mummified illustrations of desire, unborn, unbeaten, decadent illusions of prospects unborn, unbeaten, decadent.
Enter.
Infinity, claused, in absence of anything tangible, fiction. Everafter, framed. Infinity, null, unless temporary, unless per instant, always in past tense. Entrances to things that don't exist, coated as trajectories, made to please me, pacify my bloated concept of self, made to reassure me that I am. Next by next, I die successive deaths in dependent points of no return. My cigarettes, my cigarettes, sole evidence of my passing.
Enter.
Pluralist doctrines in lyrical commandments, to enter, as entered. Already in.
Enter.
The world as we know it, in my bed, is incomprehensible. The beat in which it beats, and every atlas in between.

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