Oh dear God. Oh dear loving God.
Why do the whims of my scintillating self control dictate thoughts of immoral fancy
to be followed without care or contriol by self?
Why does love not linger longer than the blooming of the sun on the horizon?
Why does the setting of an orange globe into my teeth taste sour?
Because it is not peeled of the outer layers of what I love, and loath,
to protect from myself.
My demons.
My monsters of despair and decay.
I hate the motion inside myself that tells me I need love.
I hate the blinding stillness inside myself that tells me I want love.
I hate it all.
What I need is motion inside myself that tells me I have love.
that tells me that I am love,
that I am loved,
that love becomes me and becomes the beautiful women that surround me.
Oh, dear fantasies inspired by motions and senselessness.
Oh dear fantasies.
Dear painful want of things,
of eyes, of ears, of mouths and lips to pander to. To hold
in my mouth
and to become what I am feeling until I feel nothing but emptiness,
without the stifling silence.
Oh dear love, where are you?
Are you behind the chair?
Behind the seat I sit in?
Behind the glaring screen?
Perhaps inside. Inside kazaa locking lips with a lesbo bamboozle
or perhaps in an mmorpg,
crowding out consciousness of RL.
And here I am.
And where are you?
Why do the whims of my scintillating self control dictate thoughts of immoral fancy
to be followed without care or contriol by self?
Why does love not linger longer than the blooming of the sun on the horizon?
Why does the setting of an orange globe into my teeth taste sour?
Because it is not peeled of the outer layers of what I love, and loath,
to protect from myself.
My demons.
My monsters of despair and decay.
I hate the motion inside myself that tells me I need love.
I hate the blinding stillness inside myself that tells me I want love.
I hate it all.
What I need is motion inside myself that tells me I have love.
that tells me that I am love,
that I am loved,
that love becomes me and becomes the beautiful women that surround me.
Oh, dear fantasies inspired by motions and senselessness.
Oh dear fantasies.
Dear painful want of things,
of eyes, of ears, of mouths and lips to pander to. To hold
in my mouth
and to become what I am feeling until I feel nothing but emptiness,
without the stifling silence.
Oh dear love, where are you?
Are you behind the chair?
Behind the seat I sit in?
Behind the glaring screen?
Perhaps inside. Inside kazaa locking lips with a lesbo bamboozle
or perhaps in an mmorpg,
crowding out consciousness of RL.
And here I am.
And where are you?
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