Things I’d like to write about while I’m asleep. I think about them when I’m asleep. Sex. Always…women. Tasty. Soap and suds. Men, occasionally but not in the way you are thinking right now. Like last night, I had though about Bukowski. How his wisdom appeals to me at times. I see it as the center of some other center. Where we are orbs that revolve around it. like last night for an example. I read one of his short stories on lsd. I don’t remember the title. I was having a bad day. Not entirely bad, but the kinds of days where you reminisce shit. You know the good and the bad stuff. Then you think about love. If it is just a word, or something to say to people to make them feel better. I mean, I love to hear that I’m loved at times too. But then again, too much of anything is always not enough and the least you hear them — could possibly lead to bliss or either….or neither…maybe contentment or contempt.
Anyway reading Bukowski, did shit all over my perception of the world. No matter how nihilistic he is at times. His worldly contortions are rather blasphemous yet comforting. Our existence is rather shitty if you could come to terms with it. What is better are the good times and realizing they are not always there. Sometimes we just put ourselves in a trap. Rather to accept that we are not in one. Good to know though, that we are prisoners anyway. And beauty is not always sought for in the preconception of beauty. I could just as well be a drifter and be trapped. Rather than be a banker and have a free soul. But I think the truth lies in the acceptance of contradiction.
I know how like certain elements in life. In the more physical aspect like making a concrete monument for the executions of humanity and prosperity of consumerist death. Bricks have to be laid. Then there is the cement that holds together. All these things always supporting each other to make a point. A structurally cohesive point. Something that we could touch. See with our eyes. Enter and exit with our bodies. The nature of words too. Like for eg. Words that come together to project an emotion or meaning or a point or some sort of logic that the other person could perceive. Then he will take that and make it his/her own and project out in to his/her world. So the web of things may branch out so extensively and always finds its way back to us.
So there is really no reason to, be selective in what we use in order to project. We could just as well use coffee mugs and plywood and paper to build a monument. And that conception would have just as easily be derived from somewhere else. Striking at first. Awe inspiring. But then later when least attention is projected onto it. All that had made it what it was just fades away. Nothing is new. Nothing is old. Really. I just think nothing really exists. Bukowski sees this.
Fuck be bothered to be loved. When we truly know that we are incapable of loving for every moment and every minute of our lives. There is always hatred too. There is always sadness. Then happiness. Then love again. And why expect the same. Everything is words. Words…words and more fucking words. Language is a twisted medium and one never should have faith in them anyway. Silence should have been the one and only virtue.
Then I wake up from my sleep and want to write shit like…. I want to drink the pleasure from your lips. Run my nails through your hair and exhale my warm chocolate breath on your exposed shoulder. My tongue will surge with blood as it salivates you pores and taste its sweat. Gushing from all sides of you soft skin. The tongue will exert itself on your neck. teeth gently nibbling on its stretched skin as your head falls back into my hands. As my hands move and caress with the gentle touch of wet fingers the insides of your thighs. Now I just want to kiss you and feel the blood collected within your supple lips and run my fingers through your spine illuminating the electric from within.
I put the pen down. Still words. Dangerous. Capitalizing. Have not faith in them cause they only last as long as you read them or remember them. So what is this love anyway just plain desire. Or the pain within desire. Or wanting. Or needing. Or not being able to live without. I have stopped smoking. Wish I did. I should just watch some porn instead. Even knowing it would never complete me. The leviathans of the world drink from my cup again. Goodnight.
No comments:
Post a Comment