Time alone is time creative.

The dusty sun-lit room with some wooden furniture.

My words are downed in the scream of a thousand similar scoundrels and liars, like me.  I am unknown and will remain as so for all the sentences I travel - around thoughts familiar and stranger.  To be amongst the flood is no perk or talent.  The doom of our petty generation.  An unhumble rampart against which we cannot overcome save for celebrity of vice or money.  Unknown and wasted effort remain for none.

He has iodine on his hands.  That passing form and luxury.  If only taking it off was a view I could see.

Daily Consequence

The crumbling hold of all my sympathies runs its course.  The fade of a long expired effort towards the plan of the next thousand days.  Lost to the groping manifestation of motivation.  An empty gesture sent as listless at the backward glance and unknown to the others.  The noncommunicable challenge of the day.  The burning rush of the prolonged battle.  A rush of a few dozen failures seize the minute minute moment of a long sigh when seeing them.

II.

We are the scoffers who plan.  The victims of a long obsolete horizon.  On the cusp of our old new generation.  We play as pretenders to an immodest age.

An Immodest Age

                I don’t want to be new. I’m in the throes of heat not knowing what trend is approaching any. A caliber of night slicing through my busy, gnawing days. With them always looking and begging me. To violate the airs and to be amongst them – that long promise. A hope lost to hours. Meandering and sulked, all hot. Pulled tight against the wall to suppress and oppress the angles not worthily deemed. To construct a new image in the passions of an empty determination. To fold away the good things. To once again deem all the paradise a nightmare. The new know no effort and thus perfect. Hence my war.

Exuent Doom of Youth

My greatest affirmation is those.  The throngs, as it were.  I cannot explain my jealousy.  But it is overwhelming and burning.  The same fire that forges real will.  Will I can never have.  I am totally aware of all this.  And I remain jealous.

     The exaggerated thinness of their frames.  Why, each internal scream begs, can’t I find myself among them?

     Oh , let me be away from them and their bodies.  If only they could disappear, or be struck with some humile ugliness.  But no.  My entire crisis is with their universal saturation of my life and vision.  I am haunted by these demons of the gorgeous.  What am I left to do but run away, seeing is that I cannot fight.

     The shape is the totality of my lust.  How can someone appreciate the art of shape so much – or is it geometric?  Is my downfall based in the sciences at all?  Or am I abnormal.  I don’t want to be abnormal.

     All I wanted to do was win.  I know I am lying to myself when I talk of escape.  To what sexless place could I retreat?  There is none to say I can go and be cured, distracted, or treated in the least – my whole pursuit is a pipe dream, weak and feeble.  The whole ill sought errand is so much a fools journey.

     What’s worse is the simplicity of my desire.  To slide into them – such an easy motion, to have spent devastated months on end arranging.  To understand and know their warmth.  To be able to say, of them, that they are sensitive to this or that.  To bite them at the height of passion, to feel their arms pull me into them.  Hot breath on my neck.  Those.

     They are a headache and disease – pervading my life with distraction.  Their angle hateful.  Their entire balance, war.