The face tells a story. So what has this one told you? That you’re a sucker for cycles and maybe just a dead star and a little bit nebulous. But you admit to it, so you can almost discount its existence just by conceding it. Or so you’d like to think. What are you basing these perceptions on? What tangible realities have you paraphrased into a foundation for these misguided applications of endearment and excitation and enjoyment, when all you have to prove is that you’re anything other than a loathsome little fuck that delights in strife, both inside and out, and has a ophic taste for sacrosanct fruit. (Who doesn’t? I can hear you demanding.)
So much the better for Gravity to inspire me.
What story does your face tell? That you’re a bad liar — if nothing else — and you’ve always fancied yourself such a brilliant one, one that can weave words into truth with a slash of the pen and the labours of your larynx and your belaboured bullshit. Something beneath the eyes — something that betrays the lack of certitude and encroaching sense of safety, a feeling here associated with naiveté and youth and unbridled suffering. Psychic associations, emotional gossamer grabbing the bygone days that instilled the initial instinct towards self-flagellation.
Kneeling in the dirt. The gravel. The moon. The saline — the only thing dripping in omission of entrails entreating an increased inspection as to the nature of the contamination of the commiserated cunt. But no one really cared much, because beauty cannot corrupt — that’s what I — you — gleaned from the entire cycle. Cycles. (Is there more than one Cycle?)
I think I taste tail.
-M
