Author Information
Hangover
The book that I offered to write did not contain images
I thought appropriate to encapsulate the lucidity of a
heart on the constant edge of breaking. The churches I
used to frequent in the Catholic dark echoed in their
architecture only the slightest archaic dreams of her
lustrous curves. These hangover days are filled with
murder. I am happy to assume now that there is not one
amongst them able to know the sheer power of the smell
of the sweat on their head. I am monstrous in this
knowledge; I have lately unhinged my guilt so that it
slides like an ice sheet into the frozen river of what
I interpret to be the realities of madness. I have decided
to become more than shadows, tho as a clown smeared in
filthiest rouge I do not expect that the insincerities
existant on earth are happy to accept my sickly infidelities.
How is it that this sepia sickness - faultlessy defined
in the grey horror of a pathetic Sunday air - how is
it that we are savaged by desire in these atmospheres?
And I am no longer enamoured of beauty, tho in this I
may misrepresent my polemics. In the ruts of Indian
pavements, dirt and excrement decaying into opalescence,
I have seen my desire embodied. There is no beauty now
which remains inimicable except that which is conceived of
in the selfish shadows of independance. There is no
sincerity in love except that which exists as an enemy
to what we truly belive deserving of love. In the air
of these days, where a computer may blandly masturbate
a guilty protein dream, desires are based in secrecy,
for we must believe in beauty, who can only be extraordinary
and therefore most only exist in the stinking whispers
of moisture, those subtleties hidden in ethylene, God
choked in condom rainbows.
