Typical Charles.... FIRST!
Outside the tactful placement of the furniture, outside the immediate reactions of the bee drones and the livid things, oh the desire to get outside again and again. We are not moving anywhere, we want to feel like we are moving somewhere. To go on a plane, to go a on a bus, a car, a train, a boat. To move around in circles endlessly and sicken ourselves with nausea suppressants. “We keep doing this! We keep on doing this!” I think that’s what he kept shouting from below my window, kept on spewing from his rotting jaw. Shut up, shut up - and I close the window and fix my earplugs in. It’s like we are complacent here. It’s like a simile of the species, outdoing itself with the complacency of the next, the surrendered discourse coming at you from the Other. We are not in soliloquy, we are in farce. We are playing out an unmanifested fear in attempt to dispel it’s poisons. We are trying to excite the dull, hype up the rock, put drama in the brick brain. We are in consistent futile rotation. We are consistently mouthing off, jaws agape with an outpour of our di-arrhea-ed ingestion.
She heard him fart his life away, like a lispy child through a curtained door. This was the big play of it all; his giggles and her sighs. They would meet eye to eye in the most tenacious ways, meet eye to eye in the lovemaking jeez-breeze sessions that played out like stilted (un)dress rehearsals. So how could they?
to go back, was thought out by her often. To leave the city of the now, and return. [I want to be brackets in my life log-line, retreat from the wall.] They made a pact to try again this time, to try harder and harder until something popped right. It was a burgeoning boil that held colossal heat inside.
so the farting man made a brick wall in the back. She watched in her pink-stripped robe. And all the man wanted, while he layed the cement goo on good, was to rip that petty little pink stripped fabric from her bone-braced skin and crack her insides with flagrant strength. To do her in and out like a has-been doll in a rag tag race to the end. He had furious thoughts but weak ends and placid boners. ha-ha-ha-ha! the woman kept thinking in the man’s fucked up fantasy. But what did the woman really think?, the readers thought all along. Well, she thought this:
[I want to take it like Kingdom Come big. Zoo-Circus-Parade big. I want the sky to rip and sneeze due to my pepper] and the want-thoughts became a silent mono-drone that bubbled below. Above, she figured the robe was overdue, the clouds were grayer in shade, the grass needed a cut another day. The duties and distractions were thrown into her air.
To Clear Up the Air better,
Let us not forget the sancti-harmonious idea guns that led to the battle of Algiers, and the showmanship at the end of the bidding process, the right-wing catalyst of (not the machine!) the lust! Let us be lust-ridden, Father, Mother, Big Bossy Brain. Let me be lust-ridden and give in, quite willingly, to the cloudy control center. Let me be the thing, we, as our Cultural Clapping WEEE(!), let us be that thing we Hate. Let me stand on the Big Box, pick me up there, and I’ll shout out great wisdoms to the open-eared world, the dogged carelessness of leaping love, the anticipation of the rising sun by the granola-dieters, the atrophized vegan brain (too many meals without the sweat of man-meat), we are Meat-Eaters, junk-diggers, the fanned fart of the Woooooooorld….that’s how he ended his show every night, with the riveting speech words like these. He would do the well-known jumping-jack dance with a feverish tilt, smile with all fours and scuttle off the main-stage. We would take down set and the audience, the audience all right gave way to great prosper. They were the reason it all worked. They were the reason the band-wagon kept on riding us home, and home, and home, and home, and home.
So, we kept riding. We got home and we slept, slept till our eyes sagged out of our sockets and the Sandman bid us farewell. We got back on our horse and rode past the point of home, beneath the home and towards the center of the world. It was a mindless journey. It was a moth to the flame, this natural light-seeking. It was the journey that killed us in the first place, for without it we are eternal beings. But I am flawed and fucked with light lust.
hear it out of context:
"Recently I’ve begun to realize that that odd feeling that’s been hitting me for years is the feeling of a stranger, trapped inside a strange land, inside a strange body."
"This is a matter of experience, to experience without knowing, to experience a tree not as tree. I want to break out of my brain, I want to break out of the world that everyone has created for me."
"If anything, the absence of this passage from the other Gospel’s suggests a hidden truth, a more honest portrayal of a man shrouded in glorification, especially in the instance of miracles."
"Why must I fear the sound of my own throbbing blood, the white noise of my body? In the ocean, young enough to be fearful, old enough to want to be inhuman, without a body, without the veins or calluses. But now that I’m old enough to dive deeper, to touch a fish with my hand, I want my pumping to be unfeared, I want to embrace my fragility, feel my heart gurgle with blood, hear my grasping, rickety breathiness."