westley

A quick flicker of the image and then there's shape - Certainly the universe must've been born on a hot night in the middle of summer just shortly after the advent of hot nights and summer - a quick splash and then bam - infinity intertwined with nothing in an unfathomably small foam awash with comings and goings at a rate faster than fast to the point where it all just sounds like a low hum and likewise, I'll take my own ho-hum place amidst it all on my own hot night in the middle of summer, sound asleep under cherry starlight with the moon writing sultry girlfriend poems to whoever wants to hear down here. There's a hologram in my memory that my imaginary hands keep tracing again and again with the hope of breathing life into ghosts of ghosts - those hips and those lips - black marble eyes and the secret's always velveteen - the Rosicrucian days reflected in mirror after mirror after mirror 'til I wonder if it ever actually happened in the first place. Love is an ethereal lace lulled to sleep by truth with her eyes closed and her soft mouth slightly open - her teeth make the lightest click against my teeth with the ocean rolling out alpha rhythm love songs - toes curling in wet sand - hands on her hips - super-ancient night. The instant's forever lined with "forever", scribbled down in the universe's notebook in the middle of the most random page, keeping it locked and sealed and hidden in plain sight right where no one ever looks. (Genius, I tell you!) It fractures off from "this now" and "this now" and "this now" to the point where it no longer feels like "now", much in the same way if I were to declare that "This statement is occurring in the present moment." - It was "present" at that moment, but has already become the past - Much in the same way that that statement has already become the past - And everything I'm about to say is "old" the second I say it - grasping and grasping and grasping, yet whatever I do, "now" remains elusive - It all happened "back then". So people split off and tribes are built and languages are formed - the French are shooting porn way before their time - black and white grain - crazy filmstock of yesteryear and a countless number of books about blood and wine and magical searches through mysterious lands that couldn't be more ordinary if you ask me. Everyone wants a piece of what we were for all the wrong reasons so I never say a word. I manage to find a city of my own with buildings spiraling high into the night and a million jeweled lights lining the skyline with mystic serenity. There are people wandering down the boardwalk at the river's edge staring out at party-boats lumbering by full of passengers on outdoor dancefloors with drinks and a rush of inaudible conversations that fade into the scenery. The waters curl and lilt - a smooth slow-rock surrounded by a huge metropolis - the concrete infrastructure of a sprawling city. I'm nameless in the heart of downtown - a random shadow slipping through the lateness without detection - no care, no reason, no nothing. Even later still, in an elusive present moment, I materialize as a process - a collection of synapses firing - a complex combination of electricity holding together as "form" - a conglomeration of wants and needs and feelings in a dark room where the blue light of a television illuminates other objects gathered symmetrically near it. My dead lost-love essence drives a string of random thoughts which the TV reflects sympathetically - A quick flicker of the image and then there's shape -