Fluff

Twiggle cream, acid bulldozer. Crystallized shades within a veil of Sahara. When December kicks in, I’ll be gotten. Shread the soles: wholes, completeds. I doubt the police’ll tone down my grammarettes. Grammarly mine and on-time (subtly sublime). You are worth a ton of pieces—a bunch of lots, you. In December, when I’m sorry—much to her disillusionment, enchantlessness and embracing dissolution (on antibiotics)—would you care to let me die. We fainting spells are leaving mayhem behind and I’m ahead of you. At the center of a disk, I repeat: you are.

It was Itadhi Fields, in slashes. In painted harvest, among the suns. When the sirens flushed your head away to the heavens, I stayed and watched them glow. It was a distilled version of youth, fanatically yours and entertainingly mine. Yet beneath cloths and super cool, none of your fiery agents were sentient the way my wishes intended. Cut with a heavy slayer in micro doses of worn thought and dullness, just to watch you bleed. But no. A limited kind of everlong does not suffice—you should never mingle with endings. Love is the utter disparity of truisms. Besides, these seismic fairytales gave you deep sunshine through my eyes. The later debate disputed many points against me, but my argument was my pulse you held so tight, like an inanimate object. Maybe it was as static, for it was timeless. What happened, no? You can re-happen many times again, I doubt I care. Your relevancy falls flat the longer you stay better, the greater you become—the more detached. He who thinks, measures. And girl you hated numbers back then.

A fruit races ahead of blood spikes. Gracious defenses, hymn and loyal consumption. What do they have in common? Lately I would buy Genesis time to reorganize me. The flag was a black hole. I summon you not. Install, install. Brokendate. Back in 2017, I’d sing you songs that nobody cared about. When they were sang we were not—anybodies, anymore. Back in 2017, she just wanted to be seen. You peeked from under their shadows. Smart and disinterested. Self-classified as basic. Smart, but not smart. Sorry—sorry not. Bring the ends together, my love. Tame my bends and go on, please (go on). Gather our crossovers like a queen, crazy queen. Be slow and be gore. Full stop. I am motion in full stop. When I think of you, I rearrange you. God is dissapointed. You let his only child die. You have cursed us all for after thousands of years. Your head should be lit on fire. Well it is true that we hate one another. It's a complex lexicon. A domino effect I refuse to care for. Maybe in the rivers, lone by the shore. Augmented in solipsism. I'll come to forget by switching parameters. A laser artifice will keep me sane. In arms, I will follow to destroy my sweet collar. I will convert you in data.

Claire would set them up to meet each other and I’m still writing about you. It was a laugh, I bet, a great laugh. My foreign status would only cease to amaze you, but no more than my depleted humor (it really depends on the receipient, and my good mood). My socks are cheap and probably ill (and ill-fated), and you were all in black, you white cream, not so white, of course not, fuck white, what would you call yourself, please tell me more, I need to remember. Your dramas, your friends and hatreds all went away very soon, too soon for me and right on time according to the clock of things (real, American). Mine, my clock, is broken. My theories are about creating the illusion of narrative, of alt time. A time in which every nice thing happened and will happen and if it never happened it happened still—you should know. And so, I am not slipping but it is you and your glorious curly hair, angel—are you an angel?—, your dusty CDs and I am dust in between them, and dust gets wiped from memory sooner, and its presence reflects epilogue, it is a wormhole to better times—yours, not mine.