Friday 12 August 2016

Shelly sen bei want want crackers

> It's not yet midnight and I mostly wish it would rain. Everything else is more than ok as it is, but the physical oppression of centigrade peaks all night is taking a toll, pushing me to giddy highs I'd prefer to keep under wraps if at all possible, drenching me daily in the sweat of my labour and love. B dubs I am hurtling by train-tube westwards away from you for some reason. I'm so smitten, so much interpersonal information shared at hi-speed, marathon exchange rates, such a manic bixie panic, like dixieland cornet runs slipping ahead of the beat, hearts spinning around a new central gravitas that is mutual admiration. The locale is, as de rigeur maintenant, Parkdale, patios, etc, and other secret downtownR spots. From my new perch, in the picnic spot treetop with no CN view, just you and the mom (there's always a mom) she invited Ryan and Christina to the house she has torn to pieces and rebuilt anew, in the image of power and self determination, in search of her fifth love, her unicorn, her golden one. There is little sleep to be had in this heat, and she takes the first cold bath she can remember, dunks and chills, doesn't stop. Rnb tunes pump and still her gardening lust takes her on a blind date. This has nothing to do with Not My Dog, my friend. This has to do with sleeping on rooftops and beaches, this has to do with a touch of Kanye, with a stuffed monkey left behind in the weeping wake of an arrest on Charles St, where the sorceror scrubs, where (wo)men walk, galleries display various incantations while power is pieced out, where the wires and streetcar lines spin out running, out looking for you, a dream, for you the memories, you, a place, home, a security that no mere wall, wifi or never-without could ever resettle or secure. Still you wonder, why? How you holler, help. Sacraments and crackers, Chinatown and Yorkville. The peace is of the puzzles all there. Let it go, grab hold. Squeeze. Glass hands played at the Central tonight. I had time to catch up, the sorceror spun five years for me and Greg, the storefronts fell away to reveal perfect glass condominiums and corporate watering holes, speculative cultural institutions and specialised herbal dispensaries, wandering lovers and lost souls, all taking to the air in a ridiculous humidity, limpid and languid, though pierced with a clear, sharp progressive trance, all the while washing dishes, selling jewellery, cooking food, doing presentations, setting interviews, micro managing, freak-outs and oversights, new chances at happiness, constant anxiety, self medication, dismay, nostalgia, and self evident success in four day's manifestation, the final frustration of the captain, who swallows stones, and this third and youngest bird, burning so bright and letting love's light shine, house warmed by little red corvette. Seems like thirty years now. But we sang as if it was now. What was? Here's my mammafesto, maybe, last stand in secondhand land. Up on the roof and living free. Safety. Dada detector, stress-wrecker, bad mime. All I wanna do is have a little fun before I die. Haters. Shake em off. Trouble. Correlated to which, trust those who are willing to be open and honest with you and with themselves. Dream dreams and make honest, hopeful plans. Beach it. Live and then die. I am nearer to a new apprenticeship, living here. I never showed you what I did to your stone. I put the rose quartz into my mouth and I walked downstairs into the dark. Captain sleeps, climbs to the top deck. On the water. The wafer is all they have. What does magic look like without sparks? What does my face look like without hair? Look into the future, now, dream, darling one, sweet cheeked summer, sleep in an ice box and dream the future into being, all of the answers and the reasons are there in the witching hours. xo

No comments:

Post a Comment