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.

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