It isnt the fall so much as the grinding press of solidity that endures, snubbed out of motion like the butt of a cigarette, extinguished like a wishing star. No steak, no sizzle, no fog or snow or drizzle-- the set piece of sparkling constellations and visible breath. The feeling of wanting when all desire seems absurd. The ghost limb itchings of an amputated limb, the persistent cobwebs long after the last spider dies.
It is a matter of lapsed vocabulary, of stunted ethics, of human revulsion. Quantified in lines and curves, in pixels and phonemes and old fashioned pheromones. Blunt and abstracted at once, the measures bridged of hidden treasures and hobbled talents, all this waning, these slow artless dissolves into remainder selves. It is the side show wind up after the three ring pitch. The spat out words that never quite reach, the feigned interest that fades once the hook is bit. Just the wounded lips and vestigial pride. Traces and signs, footnotes inscribed in a text no-one ever bothers to read.
Dry skin and necrotic bites, slow rot and symbolic demonstrations. Writing these love notes to oblivion, etching the living tree full of these diseased valentines. The gravity of this persistent emptiness, so full of scabs and dust. Like the scratchings in old heroic vinyl, a face so lovely you anticipate only lies. History chuff and dross, dreck and ruin. This unspoken voice, haunting the still rumor of happenstance. These forgotten reasons, stitched into each shadow devoured by the light.
It is a matter of lapsed vocabulary, of stunted ethics, of human revulsion. Quantified in lines and curves, in pixels and phonemes and old fashioned pheromones. Blunt and abstracted at once, the measures bridged of hidden treasures and hobbled talents, all this waning, these slow artless dissolves into remainder selves. It is the side show wind up after the three ring pitch. The spat out words that never quite reach, the feigned interest that fades once the hook is bit. Just the wounded lips and vestigial pride. Traces and signs, footnotes inscribed in a text no-one ever bothers to read.
Dry skin and necrotic bites, slow rot and symbolic demonstrations. Writing these love notes to oblivion, etching the living tree full of these diseased valentines. The gravity of this persistent emptiness, so full of scabs and dust. Like the scratchings in old heroic vinyl, a face so lovely you anticipate only lies. History chuff and dross, dreck and ruin. This unspoken voice, haunting the still rumor of happenstance. These forgotten reasons, stitched into each shadow devoured by the light.