And a rapist known as freedom.
free doom
Tangled up deep, I never had my
head like this. “Conventional,” she tells me eating breakfast, coffee and eggs,
at the edge of the third ghetto. And I’m at the edge of all craziness, ready to
launch into the wide nothingness of a life path conceived in the thousand-year
grind of steel gears unfathomable, my one soul rising high from the crushed
dust of allsouls, crushed after a past we made up when we whispered to each
other late at night. Launching towards some triumph of will and intellect where
the “words are things” rulebook dictates movement on a slice-dice time rhythm.
And I’m dying.
I think what attracts me is how
fucked up it all is. The currents of malaise just gentle enough to keep afloat,
pointed downstream, conscious, they push; they strip the movement of meaning, a
spectacular exposure of the humdrum wild, the prison of white lights. A
thousand tangled homes standing tall under sunset pandemonium, a thousand cars
driving pulsing stereos by the dude strutting slow, diagonal across the street. I want
her to disrespect me and I want to be so mad about it I can’t think.
All I have is ambition and I want
more.
