and one white rose with red edges just for you.
Six pages of blank is all it took. Emotion
only comes from the television or the cinema.
Family is as cold as turtles until you turn on the
lights, make me know it’s you and not somebody
I can’t advise. That proves that relation is
remarkable. And that there’s nothing weaker
than nonsense. Anyway, get a grip. Or learn
from the fruit you grip so carefully only to
fold into the crisper until it spoils. Then I
bag it all up into the garbage. Love is like
that, white around the outside, orange and
blue on the inside, always radiating
elsewhere until an asteroid gets too
close to your home planet, or the
milk spoils in China. Go ahead, though,
get seriously burned. But not before being
groped and slapped in the ass, seeing him
hard beneath his box-cut swimtrunks.
It’s a warm experience, certainly a bit
like emotion. But it’s neither television
nor cinema.
Thank you for your passion, your
compassion, the aloe vera gel, and
the Truffaut. All proof that I’ll yawn at
everything until it happens, only to
dream about it when reminded over
tea and the drone of dual hard-drives.
This dream, by the way, is all
emotion. It’s warm like a
distant wave from Federico
Fellini and hard like the bland
smile of Johan Paulik. I yawn.
I grope. I slap. I happen. I love.
I cry at movies and television,
never elsewise. I milk. I China.
I prove I ass. The ass of dual
hard-drives, no less, and the
love of box-cut swimtrunks and
cinematic ocean.
What is the proof that I felt something
when I dreamt of Johan and Federico?
With certainty, a bit like emotion.
