it has been for quite a while, and it has started long long ago. now whichever way i turn it, the passion circles the object of desire like a vulture, in rapture it descends upon it and grips it with its ferociously amputated claws. i am the vulture, it is insanity. vultures are rather colorful birds with strange feathers, so am i.
the polyandrous bird of prey that i am, will have you in its claws, and then once grasped by the dreadful cavernous claws, what could possibly bring deliverance to that imaginary dead ruddle of yours?
nothing, absolutely nothing. not truth, not sense, not prayer, nothing will bring on deliverance, the vulture circles magnificently, and its claws lock and hold the mysteries of the universe of insanity.
i am getting so very tired of the first person, but then i am an actor, and actors speak as themselves in whatever role they assume. does this mean that i am getting tired of being an actor? that, i refuse to accept, i want to control the microcosms of your bowels and transgress the illusion of perfection and transparency. how can a vagrant lover like me even exist in this ethical mishmash of incertitude?
there is some dead writer, the only kind i seem to converse with these days, who were into free flow styles. they did lots of drugs, and i can not even deal with an aspirin, however morphine makes me feel dead and dries up the ink in my pen. so, how did they do it?
in this state of being clueless, with no idea how they did it, i remain still and silent. addiction and depression are always lurking, and seducing all idleness!
nonsense all of it. it is all nonsense. all plans have been changed, instead of going west, i am going east, and pray that i will be able to endure the trials of the next two months. my muse is a few kilometers southwest of here, and i know that madness is around the corner, while insanity has already firmly installed itself in my entrails. what is pleasure, i dared ask one day. he sat there silent, looked at me, and i knew that a vacuum had been created in the subterfuges of rationalization.
i meet a group of people who share interests, and i find myself just wanting to not deal with it. i sit there and watch myself, and i realize that once more i am dominating the table, and that i just may have different items on my agenda. i am getting slow with my impatience, and i share with these people my half rhymed thinking. i relax, the whole group relaxes. i tell myself, no! i said i was tired of leading. god, you must pray now because i really do not want any of this!
later i meet my nonjudgmental judge friend at the same restaurant, and he and his companion invite me for a glass of wine. we laugh, we laugh good and hard, we laugh because we want to cry about the illusion that creates so much suffering.
no deliverance!
no stigmata either. it is all very very simple. i have no power to fuck up anybody's mind, but i have all the power in the world to fuck up my own mind, that is my sole power besides my insistence on rehabilitating the declensions of the verb and noun "fuck."
[posted with ecto]
