this is a picture of hollywood

It’s rainy today and I think it must be sunny in California. Blue skies stretching out across a limitless horizon. Driving in a white jeep, music buried under the sound of freeway wind but for the drums. His hand on the steering wheel, how the fur on his wrist was nothing like mine. We would leave our hand on the others leg, old fashioned touch of appreciation. I’m wondering what’s going to happen today. Who I’ll see, who I’ll talk to, how the interaction dances will play out. I went to dinner last night with James and he explained his theory of why there’s more disturbed people down south. “The lesser crazies are scared of the guns.”

Oh, for a bit of architecture, this place with it’s several parts. Small town listlessness, I’m not under the spell. This city still does not feel like home. Remembering where everything is does not justify staying, but only the opposite. It’s not comfortable, it’s more of a trap. It wants to skin me for my pelt, take my hair and pull my head back, a knife of pleasantries drawn across my throat to catch the intelligence which spills forth. I woke up this morning to my clock radio playing Walking In Memphis. Strata of living in Toronto when I was a kid slowly opened my eyes and I looked at the time uncomprehendingly. I was too big suddenly, too tall for the bed. Where was this place and where were my parents? I was tiny and just learning how to read. I walked in spurts, falling down all the time. My parents scraped the sky.

you read of me, but you never needed this

I am thinking of your voice.

I expect your eyes when I wake. Directly in sight of mine, instead of this parking lot bed with it’s empty sheets. Painted lines of smeared lipstick and formless rumpled blankets, yours, but mine now. No one is here anymore, the broken building barren. No one asks for the cathedral voice anymore, I sleep in this coffin junction all alone.

Idle minds painting pictures of memory, we never could stand it. Minor miracles required, your change into mine incomplete, like we were always waiting for the paperwork. Letters eaten by the faulty inside postal service, no worker bees to listen, only a kittens plan on conquer. I never could tie knots what stayed any length of time. That was your break-up song, fifties songbird sadness trapped in bobbysock white wedding dress colours with thick heavy bass hitting underneath. Thudding like a breakbeat dancefloor, “I don’t think you should wait for me.”

Clean supernova crash in the clench of my teeth when I taste what you look like. Your lips never stayed on mine long enough for me.

Melody, merry, mine today and tomorrow and the next, but the next I take him, maybe, it’s a possibility. Defining grateful, graceful, the edge need to be wanted. Arrows edge, hearts blood. The colour, the desire, painful dreaming of something, nothing, in particular, like the sound of the messenger burble telling me that there’s someone saying. It used to be there and now it’s not. It used to be here, I could feel it, I could mean it, but now it’s faded, the sunlight bleaching the colour from the wood, the feel of the grain from the tips of my fingers to rest upon your face like a hollow parade of meaningless praise. I don’t know what you want of me, you can’t tell me, you can’t deal with me. I’m too close to something scary, I would go into the back of the cave with my hand, a vice, around your wrist. It’s dark and it scares you and I don’t care. When will somebody trust me?

There’s someone here with dark hair and gold, there’s someone and someone and the two of them meaning chances and risks and neither one but a kiss and a whisper and what if I in the dark did this. Those girls, they know what I talk about. My room is cluttered with old disks and new books, trains of cloth gold, trinkets. Here there is no-one, here there is me and my flying mouse. Blue light lit below by red, the eternal agony, thinking in grotesqueries of myth. Sweet prince, dark prince, let me find someone to bite. Skin to ripple in writhing and names, let there be love like trickling honey, sweetest honey, honey blood for brains for mind for this of all things under the roof black sky. Mid-life crises, cracking bones to drink the marrow. The stories tell if I eat your heart, I’ll learn the tongues of animals, it makes me think of DJs. I could eat the ingenuity and spin records, spin. Jet black towers with hair, only one groove, falling. Cascade rivers of escape, rope, gleaming, twisting through thorns. Everything boils down to sex with you.

A bitter girl would say, would think – devotion, adoration, the wound, your love lies. It’s a consecration ardency, jamming the speakers with cotton mouth snakejuice. Addiction high potency, trickling from the mouths of pain, it’s a fallacy. Crawling on your belly against loneliness. I’m not so bad, the gene didn’t kick in, maybe when I’m thirty and properly jaded with sea dark green. I’m still young, I still dream of a foot in mouth disease.