He was looking for his valet on a paranoid rooftop when the wind bucked and he fell flat as a muse into the chubby coop of night where he found you for whom he had been looking found but by that time his mouth was a parachute you grabbed and used for your own, just so you could tell yourself, I love you, take me home
We accept these deteriorations as the whim of the Machine (I am so happy, something must be wrong, I am happening so much that I am stalling, breaking my pact with
simulations of the futures where mules keep thirstiest in their lazy lunge of a carriage, and the generous mistakes their bodies make to protect us from depending on them are so perfect you either have to forget or yearn. Forgetting and longing become the same thing like when you listen... Act like you know what's next, act like it's nothing. That's how you learn, by forgetting
Who sold us on the orchard, hold on, who gave us the weightless and imponderable bloom of either/or, who stays in the orchestra to play us silence, with no riddles, with nothing left to get rid of. Only a perfect gentleman, the kind with plenty of mules and one woman somewhere off in the distance criss/crossing her hands to divert his answer into a target which he will charge and miss on purpose and charge again. It's too perfect, you either have to look away or go blind toward it
Forgetting, anyone at all
who doesn’t chose you
is a quitter
Notice the flat affect it takes him to be hip shook me onto this hypocrisy and I almost dropped with it
You are a sensualist and a rebel
Why won't you come inside from their neglect
