over two decades in the making.
a timeshifting autobiographical poetry collage w/photography.
a diaristic, nearly "daily writing" (ad)venture.
new pieces are posted most days..
**new and in progress** --
recordings of each poem are being added.
these are read by the author & posted to each poem's page.
--Del Ray Cross (contact delraycross at gmail)
this is the final of four mood movements which are designed to teach us all how to dance. together is an option, is optional, as they say. they do say that. i’m not here to hold anyone’s noses, nor to blow them (unless it is a particularly sensual, particularly sinful, extraordinarily wet nose, that is). you in the back, against the wall of indeterminate color, you with your hand up, do you have a question? because there is no time for questions, nor for the movement of a hand being pumped upwards here. exertion is for turtles, my dear classless class and, it being impossible for me to speak for anyone other than myself, we here are all rodents. am i nothing less that crystal clear? i detect a bit of dissent and, as if you don’t know me well enough by now, then let me assert right here and now that there is no thing i can tolerate less than dissenters. subjects j, z3, a48, b80, 933, 406 and w, you have each refused the grand assimilation, you may now walk your selves out the door and to your immediate right, where the sergeants of mind monopoly will be on the ready to clip your lips, bind your buns, and haul you off for immediate composting. as for the rest of you insubordinate cogs – and see how easily i can switch to humor? – i hold no modicum of dim hope that one or two of you dear fledglings might make our future more air tight with such effort less and swash buckling talent. as i was saying, class, as the final failures leave the room and are well on their ways to a fair oblivion, you, my dears,
i am pleased to
report, have all passed level three. now, stay alert, and be here promptly at oh five hundred in the morning as we begin level four. ciao for now, chippies.
the second movement on the elaboration of disposition is something with which i have, i
can say with authority, extensive experience: horrendous moods. of course, sure, i’ve had
those galore, and you’re probably thinking who hasn’t? – but, my friend, my perfect stranger, this isn’t so straightforward as that. however, as i said, it is nevertheless
true that i have over twenty-five solid years of experience as an executive (personal) assistant. (it should be noted that in my day, before i knew the ropes, there was
never one mention in the job description of such intimate personal matters. but it was also never quite inferred, once the ball got rolling, so to speak, that
it had never been imagined that the two – business and personal, that is – were ever anything akin to separate. this could easily be reasoned, and
without even a modicum of logic. not that such a profession was all that very bad in which to happenstance oneself randomly into. but personal
has become political, has become obtrusive. personal is the binoculars that you never asked for and with which you can see ever so clearly into the dark
recesses of your executive’s soul. which
may be every possible flavor of disgusting. never you mind if i begin to meander into alternative subjects, that’d be multi-task
ing and all non sequitur-like. which, alas, is in the job description.) movements are like that. they take you places and make you feel things. but are you forced? ooh, that is
such a no-no. and did they force you, meine liebe fritz, meine arschgeige. sometimes there’s force, of course, a necessary but rather humor- laden evil. it is a bitter pill to swallow, most ass
the weakest of, the meekest of, the bleakest of moods. and i am torturing you so because, as they say in show business, I WANT OUT!!!!! and aren’t you, of course, surprised. come come!
He took advantage of her/me. What is that like in your life? It could never have happened. Come with me somewhere. —John Ashbery
write. or used to be. what is, though. not what’s within the con fines of your selfish wants, your narrow de sires, but what works. wholly. universally. visible. or otherwise established by the senses. only then might you move to ward the hypothetical; and perhaps after that, you could try to go fur ther, to breach the fan tastical, the intangible. but for now, and at your age, stick to the ground you walk upon, can feel, is physically palpable, staying grounded is key. reality is paramount.... the black cartoonish eyes on the broken green coffee cup mug (and yes, move from the general to the specific: your evolves, becomes my; yours, mine; you are now me. the calendar on the wall, discolored from being wet, as it was when it arrived at your doorstep, arrived, indeed, at my doorstep, was placed into my hands by the courier who weekly delivers my box of diabetic food. i have diabetes; was diagnosed almost exactly one year ago this week. these boxes of prepackaged food are delivered on thurs days, recently having been switched from sundays, when they arrived for nearly a year. at no charge. they arrive at no charge to me. but hang on a minute. is this the good news, the reality that i should regurgitate? of what use is this news, at present, to me, or to you? i should concentrate. no one knows better how to brighten things up. isn’t that what this is all about? no one knows better than me. so here goes. i should steer clear of the part about having no income, the part that is reliant upon charity or intervening help. and most definitely shut up about the broad circle of humans that i once knew so intimately, some of whom, i suppose, have flown else where, been gone for years now, but some are still here within the confines of the very same city in which you sit, alone, relying upon the kindness of strangers, not those individuals who, de spite my most dramatic or most subtle efforts to defy, to reverse, this a bandonment: i haven’t looked a friend in the face, not one, have not been in the same room, close enough to feel their breath in over a year? two? has it been even longer than that? so that old idea, the one about building the family you want, of surrounding yourself, myself, with the group of individuals that i can proudly call my family... is that the direction this should be going? is this what i’m supposed to scribble about in order to contemplate, to publicize, to open, as if a door, so that this information can be let go? a door that, even blown so wide open that it creates a hole out of which what was, what’s it’s use? as an exit for this
nonsense? never an en trance. only an exit. but of what am i ridding my self? what good is toss ing out the door such thoughts as these? that i believed? that i had such a family? that it felt so real that it existed? me, being the architect of what i might call my life, years of being proud to have such a thing, only to watch, helplessly, as every thing i so selfishly built, or selflessly, who’s to say, but yet to watch it all completely vanish, in what was but an instant, to see the whole world, my world, gone, as if it never even exist ed, and all before the reality of this disappear ance even begins to dawn on me, before i even can begin to even attempt to comprehend how gone it all was? and is? how dead i would become to all i used to called important, all who mattered? is this the real ity to which i should ded
icate my time and efforts? is this the story of stories that i live to tell? and to what end? why should i bother telling and retelling this? to you? why should this be the something that i might explore further, and from which i might learn? but what might i get from doing this? what might you get? well, i have an answer for these questions. a justification, if you will (oh, won’t you allow at least this? i entreat, as if there’s anyone out there who might some day retrieve this, another message i’ve bottled, capped, and tossed, as if into the vast pacific). oh, yes. i do have an answer. is this the stuff, the whole of which i am here to convey? is that, then, my purpose? no. absolutely not. or not very often, let me be indelibly clear about that. not as if there is anyone who might give the definitive word on such matters (much less offer even the vaguest of hints as to whether my com pass is pointed any where in the vicinity of the a proper dir ection? anyone? anyone?). what is reality anyway, but something tidy and comforting that, once understood, or once the surface of it is even perceived, what is it but a thing that then slips away day after day, night after night, at such a pace? so that the dreams you believed true, as discerned from those from which you a
woke, finding what before you, that home i thought
i had, all of those late night conversations you used to call engagement, the score of humans to whom i felt an earned affinity, to whom i felt what i believed to be (and wasn’t it?) that thing we might call empathy, or at least mine; my family? they’re all gone. as good as dead, as the saying goes, good as that may not, in reality, be. as you are to each of them: a figment, if that. whoa! you might be thinking (were you an actuality), this is not what i wanted to hear. nor is it what i intended to even say; what i meant to relay i cannot even remember. i had no idea what i was getting myself into, accepting this. same goes for me, i’ll add. this was not the message i set out to write, not the purpose i spent so many decades to establish. to become. so what now? you’d ask, were you there, a you, to ask, as you, per haps, more urgently plan an escape, unhappy that you came this way in the first place, disturbed by a message as somber as this, yet feeling a bit char itable for having stayed this long, or (one can hope, one can always hope) in utmost sin cerity, curious, em pathetic (that word again), perhaps even willing to help, happy just to learn, eager to engage. and, whether i’m awake or asleep, i have the best answer for such a question as that: i pick myself up from the rubble, the misery, the heartache, i pick myself up from all of it, from that mess from which i shall recover, and i begin, once again. i start over, and from scratch. i don’t look back but briefly, on moments such as these, and only then to learn how better to go about it, to make this effort the one that’s real. and if neither of us move for an uncomfortable amount of time, i shall look at the stranger standing awkwardly before me, i look you directly in the eyes and i ask, with apologies:
so as to revolutionize the automobile industry, we go to a revolting cocks concert in downtown detroit. because, alas, we have to drive
in order to arrive. and while that drive is only from ann arbor, or perhaps from toledo, we feel smug with ourselves over this decision (and what were our
choices, after all, i mean, that is, if we were indeed going to go to the concert?) also, it is decided at some point during the evening
that after the revco concert we’re going to cross over into canada to catch a late show at the gay dive in windsor. and the night turns out to be a long one
before that, especially because unlike the incredibly mesmerizing and downright rapturous depeche mode concert we’d caught about a year ago in auburn hills, the
cocks were, well, not so much revolting as all that, but they gave me a pretty massive head ache (fortunately, I do not get migraines, or at least if i do i
am naively unaware of them, but if i did, i’m pretty sure that’s what i would have had by the time they performed “beers, steers & queers,” which was only about
halfway into the set list that night). so, i had almost for gotten completely about canada, and had set my sights on the nearest
exit, and this is where my eyes remained until the encores were over, my head hurting so bad i felt as if i might throw up.
this turns out to be pretty typical of how i am when it comes to attending most such concerts, especially those in which i experience what to
everyone else around me must be the rarest of treats, or the closest thing to heaven on this side of purported heaven, and most especially when we’re
all standing upright – when there are no seats upon which
we may each comfortably sit while enjoying the live sounds of whom ever. and there wasn’t a chair in
sight, not even a folding one. there was nothing but rowdy, high, incoherent kids, each bouncing here and about and as often as not bumping
right up against each other, and against me; i was nearly tackled at least a dozen times. and so the night stretched on and on
before the echoes of the encores had finally sub sided and, not too terribly long afterwards, we had crossed the border into
canada. windsor. during my entire stint at graduate school in not-so-far-away bowling green, all the gays and gals, as each weekend
slowly approached, were al ways champing at the bit about windsor. are you coming this weekend? you can’t miss it! aw,
you’ll finally join us, won’t you? and on and on this went, but i never once did. and what
were they all pining for, you might wonder (that is, if you don’t have the misfortune of living in the area during
any portion of the 90’s)? well, apparently it was for one thing, and one thing only: the naked men. that’s right, the whole
ache for windsor was an ache to watch men perform in their birthday suits, live, in front of an audience. it sounded incredibly
sullen, if you ask me, and i was rather proud of the fact, gave myself a bit of self-indulgent credit and all puffed in
the fact that i’d never once crossed the detroit- canada border to witness such a mess. so this’d be my one and only
trip to what turns out was a total hole in the wall joint. i walk in with the gang, rolling my eyes and ex plaining my story of never
having been there, as i no doubt had been doing all night, and the next thing i know all four of us are all on high bar stools sidled up to a tall
u-shaped bar ordering drinks that were cheap and distinctively potent. to make a long story short, and this, my friends, is about as far as it will go, so here comes, walking from the top of
both sides of the “u” about six men of a rather extreme diversity, but for one singular thing (besides the fact that each and all were wearing nothing but their birthday suits): each one of those
guys had a high and mighty erection
he was chasing. and follow each they
did, all the way around the “u” to the
exit off a ramp at the top of the end from which each had originally entered.
oh, and each of the men were gorgeous; amazingly, stunningly, drop dead so. by then, of course, the concert had already become a distant, if not indistinct, and inevitably
forgettable moment in time for the four of us who showed up that night together (revolting cocks, indeed!). but that one early morning hour or two in windsor, canada is burned
forever, at least in the all too often naive brain that supposedly sits inside of my head. i have yet to return, and no doubt never will. but, oh, canada, this lucky queen will forever remember you.
What do you think is the best use of your time? (from300 More Writing Prompts)
engagement. getting engaged. ice capades. stirrups. syrup. the theme from mahogany. monogamy. dichotomy. a tonsillectomy. sirens. soothsayers. foreboding. non- buddhist tarot cards. zero sugar caro. getting stoned. getting coned. getting boned. the teens. the twenties. the hundred and fifties. blow me. you don’t know me. ruby dee. moldy cheese. golden oldies. hocus pocus. the sequel. a lot of squeals. sunburnt seals. running after a bruised quail. the headlines. a wedding. a birthday. lucille. bar harbor. ann arbor. an earthquake. a whale.
Do you wish you could press the reset button on anything in your life? If so, what? (from 300 More Writing Prompts)
a desire to communicate. there are many times when i utter sentences. they usually come out clumsily, meandering and in no clear way (and the reason i know this is by im patiently listening to a lifetime of re sponses to such utterances) are these represent ative of me, of my intention, nor, quite often, of anything that i’d even ever be or do. was this a conversation?
What TV show, past or present–do you wish your life was like? (from 300 More Writing Prompts)
let me think for a minute. okay, i’ve got the answer, if not the solution: may i simply just be me (and, me being me, i’ll be spending an extra ordinary amount of time watch ing teevee).
When you close your eyes, what do you always daydream about? (from 300 More Writing Prompts)
sex (which i learned from brian when i was nine or ten: “all day i dream about sex,” remember?). lying down upon the earth in the middle of an endless field of tall grass interspersed with the most vivid blooms. the elimination of the present set of circumstances, which is most often swiftly replaced by a deep slumber. floating. stretching time (extending the present set of circumstances). con centrating on moving the current moment into one in which i have less debt. lines of poetry (which can be pretty annoying in most cases). being completely enveloped by darkness. watching my floaters dance in the darkness. disappearing the floaters that i can’t stop seeing when my eyes are open. being in the middle of a large and crowded dance floor, bumping and swaying to what ever the dj is playing (which is amazing!). walking through a dense forest (but not so lush that there aren’t any clear trails to tread and not so dark that i could not see a critter before me, should one or more appear; in other words, it is not to be a “scary” forest). being in the same room with the man of my dreams; seeing all of his contours. willing him present. watch ing in wonder as clouds pass over me, all varieties of them except for stormy ones (rainclouds are fine; clouds that foretell a tornado are not). the precise content of a very important composition of correspondence, often something i have been putting off for far too long, or coming up with a witty variety of retorts i could have uttered in passing at anyone who recently made a smartass remark directed at me, or thinking of all the better things i could have said in response to a smartass remark, or what i should have said to a person i recently and randomly almost ran into and have wanted to speak with forever but pretended instead that i did not even notice their presence or, suddenly realizing a glaring error that i have made, either written or spoken (neither of these are great because each causes a certain amount of consternation and effort; especially the last option, which most often abruptly ends the “day dream” as i shoot straight up with great speed and fret over what on earth i am going to do to correct this horrid mistake that i have only just now realized that i have made, or else i whip myself up into a panic over whether or not i should – or will – do anything about it at all).
What one invention do you find completely useless and why? (from 300 More Writing Prompts)
off-hand i can certainly think of several that i wish were useless but know better, such as those silky pillows that you wrap around your neck for airline flights or (like some people i know do) for general all around comfort (i mean they’re hardly ever seen without one, no mat ter the occasion or location) – especially be cause the one i ever purchased was so initially cool to my skin and so refreshing but when, within mere minutes, my entire head was hot as blazes and my neck and everywhere the pillow came into contact with my skin was hot and sweating profusely; blackberry cellphones, which for years i always had to have on my person at all times, in addition to my person al cellphone, so that i could be contacted by the executives i assisted at work; i want to say condoms, but that’s a mess of an add ition to the list considering i can certainly remember the importance of having to wear one (as opposed to PReP, which is often difficult not to think of as the invention of my lifetime, having missed the days when sexual freedom was a bit less of a game of russian roulette – not
that since i have had a prescription has
it been of any use whatsoever); and speaking of russia and roulette, how a bout dictators; and automatic guns (or maybe weapons in general, but there might be an exception, even though it eludes me at present, which is to say that i’m presently too lazy to debate, particularly with imbeciles; speaking of which), how about willful ignorance, that dreadful invention made from a lack of empathy or general laziness; and speaking of generals, the military (in gen eral) – except anarchy is a fairly del usional invention of politicslessness, and then i’d next be having to explain why law enforcement is necessary, at least in my strong opinion; so what about corruption, except how else might the classes, which grow ever more distant from each other, fight fire with fire? next up would be the class system itself, but what, then would become of democracy, along along with religion and all of its various offshoots (not spirituality, of course?), that might be, in the
end, horribly counterproductive
constructs; and speaking of
constructs, i might as well dig my
self even deeper by suggesting that
monogamy is, dare i say, one of the
most ludicrous of all constructs, and yet how might this poet reconcile his hopeless romant icism, speaking of course of con structs we all might be better off without? moving out of the realm of systems of the nonsen sical that become etched in law, blue laws seem more obviously useless than most of this list. but, but. and how about aluminum foil, or at least with regard to its uses as packager of food and other things, and as a hat worn to deter extra terrestrials. but what do i know, when push comes to shove? i mean, i’d add the congress, and wouldn’t there be a lot of agree ment. others might offer the other branches of government as pretty worthless. but are they completely useless? hard to say, i suppose; or 5G – does it really work better than its predecessors? it certainly doesn’t seem to me to be anything but less effective than 4G, plus there’s all this talk of disturbing airline traffic, which sounds like quite a substantial problem; oh, how about skin-tight clothing – but i’m sure someone could argue me out of its utter uselessness. and now it comes to me, some thing that is utterly worthless: the necktie. don’t even try to debate me on this one. i must say however, that it, like many other things i’d describe as useless attire or nonsense accessories, can be fun to don while prancing about town
or the office or to events in
which one is meant to be “seen” and even places in which being seen is utterly unnecessary –
wearing something that serves no purpose when one is not forced to wear such a thing most every day of the week is groovy. i
know this from living
on the west coast, after somehow having eked out existences in the south, the midwest and the northeast of these so-called united states. for some twenty two years, now, here in my much maligned and much loved ever changing adopted home of san francisco. and that’s quite a significant portion of my life, well more than that which i’ve spent any other place in which i’ve resided, including the state i was born in and re mained through my trajectory from kiddo
into adulthood and (at
least by theoretical
definition) and beyond. and what gives this city more usefulness and purpose, despite the flimsiness and flakiness of its in-and-out-and- in-again inhabit ants, as far as i’m concerned than the general irrelevance, relatively speaking, of wearing a necktie? in fact, perhaps that is the one last reason i can still be found here. what a useful city it turns out to be, my beautiful temperate difficult to love home.
What TV show, past or present—do you wish your life was like? (from 300 More Writing Prompts)
let me think for just a moment. i like my life, i appreciate its ups and even its downs. it’s life. appreciate does not mean enjoy. the ups are always enjoyable, the stuff of life, that gives it and that motivates it to keep going. the downs are a bummer, but to put the obvious reverse spin on such cycles, you’ve gotta get up to get down; that is, you’ve gotta get down to get up. down is a logical thing one gets with up. up and down. down and up. and, anyway, what i am meaning to say is that the absurdity of a messy, seemingly infinite, ugly, and ridiculous series of roadblocks and stumbles and fumbles and doors slammed upon your arrival at almost all arrivals are like the incessant volley of ammunition you keep seeing come at you in long drawn out wars in which you are destined to be the loser of a protracted and nonsensical battle – this kind of never-before-might-it-have-ever- occurred-to-you that your erstwhile hard earned (or so you thought) blessed life was and then so suddenly is not, this can’t-be-helped mind-altering absurdity of events that transpire, seemingly all at once, or one directly on top of the other with a regularity of beat the rhythm of which i’d much rather take to a dancefloor at 3 in the morning in a city that has a proliferation of dancefloors that are very much alive with such a moderately quicker pace than the beat of a normal heartbeat, or even in a city where there is no proliferation at all but perhaps only one dancefloor that is almost always populated with such individuals bearing such heartbeats at three a.m. of almost any given saturday or sunday morning – oh, how i miss that dancefloor – well, it’s enough to shut one down for good, enough to cause you to abandon all hope, but you keep going just vaguely believing that the tide will turn, a vague belief that gets more and more opaque and unrecognizable as the duration of this string of horrid is endured. all the while as you become less and less capable of avoiding the panic that occurs as you keep telling yourself (louder and louder perhaps?) that this isn’t how it’s supposed to be, but you’re getting more and more afraid
and then resigned to the good possibility, to the probable fact that you’ll die trying. as onward you trudge, taking whatever uptick might occur, worried that it might just be a figment, a fantasy, knowing another downturn will soon follow, the trough getting lower and lower, even though you just knew you hit your rock bottom all those months and years ago, but you nevertheless all but convince yourself today’s the day, this week is when it all changes, maybe next year? and maybe so. even though this may be the reality of what you, of what i now know of my existence, reality still, can you believe it, beats fantasy, in my book, i mean, there is no other way but to be real, and with any positivity that i can muster, this is me, and always who i’d rather be, than any not me i might see on teevee. is this unreasonable? if so, read it and weep my friends, because i’m just me, and that is all i want to be, certainly more than any other that might be seen on teevee or in fairy tales or literature or any unreality that might ever be imagined.
even my dreams missed you last night. as i did* &, now that i have a woken do. *& most e specially my nether regions, it would ap pear, as i see that overnight i must’ve butt-dialed you several times around three a.m.
“Tough patootie, Doctor Sciutti!!” “Do your duty, Thom Carlucci!!” “In a minute. ‘M eatin’ a peanut.” “Yo, Carlo! May I borrow Charo?” “Drink your hooch,” snaps skinny Mister Satchi unsarcastically.
Chirps indiscreetly our Petey’s sweety's Cockatoo (she goes by the name Cocka teetee), “Marlon Brando, Garbo Har low.” Teetee’s such a dirty birdy. Not to be out-dirtied, Bertie’s monkey dunks his sticky willie
into Carlo’s dry martini and the doctor’s warm Bellini.
what strikes the most fear in me? you might ask. and i don’t mind reveal ing my deep est fears, it’s really very simple, even, and here’s what they are: Death and Love.
Death makes sense, you might say, and of course you’re just a bit too wary, upon quick reflection that Love does, too, but you keep that thought tucked away in your head as you allow
me to explain.
well, it’s really very simple, it’s Death and Love that give me the highest levels of anxiety and the longest durations of pause.
Death, for reasons i’d assume stay more at number
one at the top
of most everyone’s list (be it week after week after week with no move ment or aggregately with a few minor dips before ri sing back to the top with a bullet where it there fore remains on the whole).
but why? you might ask, and the ans wers are easy if not a bit num erous: it’s because of the pain, it’s because of the limit less options there are by which a poor soul might find it, it’s because of the nasty and horrid unknown (will it be in my sleep, might it be met by a literal weapon, like, say, for example, the hands of a human by strangu lation or a sword that someone’s hand might thrust in such a mean way that in so doing, con nects me dir ectly by way of mortal perp etrator and vile liaison to the great beyond, or by way of shrapnel by gun or by cannon or such, whether with or without in tent, could my great termina tion come by way of a slew of misshapen pieces or by one singular, abrupt, miniscule piece? it could be by dis
ease during which there’d be a cres cendo of pain that
goes on for some years or be quick as a head-on collision of automobiles at some in determinate intersection or in one that is stretched as if in slow motion while driving off the road and then diving down some mag nificently elevated cliff or off a long and (in)famous bridge?
not only is there no way of ascertaining, there is also no way to list all the possible ways one might meet their bleak and more often than not unde sirable destiny,
so to count er this mad dening, scary inevitability, i’d sincerely advise that you live ev ery moment of life like your last, because much as you like, there is such little chance that one might exist but even
a day beyond death, though if i had my druthers, i’d exist forever, no matter that breathing might get old and grow tire some and this broken down body become increasingly creaky and tired of it all, but this Living, these things that i’ve yet to experience: to Live—that is all that there is, don’t you know?
or at least all logic that our heart might allow our dear brains to reason should surely be plenty
enough motivation
to take such a
gift as this life seriously, doesn’t it seem so to you as it does (and with such clarity)
to me?
to partake in the act of just giving a mod icum of pleas ure to someone, to others, and just to allow oneself the luxury of one moment or two (or more, just as much as can be gathered if one is lucky enough!) of sheer pleasure, of the happiness that might come unex pectedly, as if out of no where, or that is met ridiculously planned by your very own hands (and hands are notorious for their roles in such things). or, and most especially if, the joy, the plea sure is self lessly given, a gift from – and here is where my two great est fears butt heads – someone you love.
Love, the most giddy and human of joys and of pleasures, the best cause for happiness, it turns out, is, as well, the most asinine catalyst for all of the things that are no good in life, like the afore mentioned pain, and the wretched emotions, the tears made of sadness (and the ones made of joy). and a great symptom
of Love, all too often, as well, can be that twin fear we’ve called Death, but of course,
so that Love, that greatest of things that can be had in the duration of time that is our own exist ence is also, much thanks to its conniving twin, and so quite para doxically, the sin gular thing that too often (ass
uredly) can
lead us di
rectly to our bitter ends.
and all the world’s mysteries, its secrets and riddles, yes all of the respec tive keys to our very un
undoings
must bow in obeisance, in this life, not to Love but to its evil twin – which is Death, if you follow – and all the way up, no matter the journey, un til He is met, until Death doth find us
as naught
but our fi
nal dust, we each, and to the best of our knowledges do not and
cannot know
that which is be
yond with all we might
learn this side of that cursed meeting, not even a sing ular clue which thus far and until we have finally breached it (if even such miniscule chance might yet exist).
and so there you have it, my two deepest fears.
the one which
most all of us
dreary roman
tics cannot live
without, and the other, with one ill wind, a lifeless breath, that must yet
and inevitably consume (and therefore erad icate) each
to a person
of all of
what fleet
ingly is us;
and in but a
blip of an instant.
and while those of us who’ve grown old over this impending, this all-too- often disheart ening battle, while we might for a moment or two pause at the fact that the existence of love, just the same as the existence of self, can never, not even once win in the end, while we’re caught in the web of what’s this side
of death, we (or
should i more
clearly say i?)
will most ass
uredly continue
to aspire towards love and, god-willing, con tinue to achieve it—all the way down to its bitter, mysterious end.
Fuck that shit, now I go My way and you go yours —David Algernon Bayley
Howard Jones, in a plaid nightgown, is in a duel with the lead singer of Glass Animals, what’s his name? With swords. This, I should mention, is happening inside my body. I want to say that today, or if we’re lucky, the future is winning. If you’re “keeping score,” that’d be Dave Bayley. I had to look that up, even though this admission causes me so much pain it hurts so good inside. Aha, John Cougar arrives, joins Jones and stabs Bayley on both sides at once through both kidneys, the liver and the large intestines. Just like in the movies, the small intestines fall out like a pit of snakes, in somewhat slow motion, it’s all perfectly gross. These contests are so unfair, thank goodness (of which I had nothing to do with the outcome, of course), and I mourn the 2000’s, look back in anger, a weaker lover for the 80’s. I join forces with the future and find new ways to colonize space: kitchen space, bathroom space and bedroom space (though
the Jacuzzi is out of business by now), with
big round red velvet beds, fitted underneath
of which are emergency spaceships built for two, but, or so I’ve heard, will hold a slim threesome in a pinch. Elon’s son, Corn
Husk Musk, keeps warning the herds
about innocent domain, an argument made entirely for the lower classes which convinces them in such an airtight way that none of the rich will be bothered between now and the inevitable ejection from circular bed into outer space. I, however, dare to resuscitate our
dear Dave Bayley upon the discovery of my super power. Which happens just in the nick of time. We are both expunged from my body and have been turned into a franchise of films that are each directed and developed strictly for IMAX by John Hughes, who had also
