untitled prosepome: march '98

The everful advancing ages keep out of reach. Someone schooled you younger. This hand will write tomorrow -- will dream of gargling strings flinging such words like water balloons of survival and love. There is the moment the tune ends, we all look at all of us and don't worry about the silence. I throw up my finger-puppet old hates who were loves, just to check if they're backsliding, or if I could bite my heart to get it beating again. Beat again. You would expect "beaten again" but that's the rule of floating into chunks -- pain is physical and grey with two eyes swinging the same way, repeat if (and always) necessary. Then wait? My Gargoyle legs are about to fail, stone must soon flap.

What is that old she running from? What happened to her? I cannot bleed for her? I cannot bleed for her -- though I want to. Does everyone sense my purification -- or putrefaction? It's all difference and being. But I'd like to know what shade she's chasing -- and why I'd block that quest. Why must I internalize her pain -- I'd paint every person with my face. I want to know if her hole resembles my old one. Maybe she knows she's just a yardstick for me. But I still maintain I'd care if she (any of those shes in the end) would bring the (her) Malkuth to me. I've been spinning in the transcendence a bit too long. Strange withdrawals, stranger voids to be abhorred. The train still drives, past nuggets of a place to rest or stand.