Language

Language

Language of repeating clichés
Language of beauty
Language of aesthetics
Language of banality
Language of architecture
Language of concrete
Language of living
Language of taking the bus
Language of loving
Language of walking
Language of getting home
Language of aggression
Language of stigma
Language of sleeping
Language of violence
Language of hitting
Language of doing the dishes
Language of forgetting them
Language of dating
Language of passing out
Language of dressing up
Language of being alive
Language of eating
Language of thinking
Language of solitude
Language of looking
Language of having sex
Language of celibacy
Language of an old man
Language of existing
Language of a riot
Language of revolution

Language of turquoise

Excavator on a star looks lonely and abandoned. A horse called Flight was difficult to handle. The animal was sizeable and white. Only one who it let ride was a girl and I thought she was the bravest person I had ever met. I use to like to watch them work together in perfect harmony. The abused and hurt horse, beautiful and enraged, and the only one who could touch its white. How are we the same? What is the same? Why do you seek similarity? Why do you want to be safe with people like yourself?

Puta Madre conceptual garden sub specie Aeternitatis, where every deed happens: truth is a bitch.  Say the truth and you will be smacked around. Out-of-place, naturally dislocated.

Nymphaea looked for her earring on living room floor carpet. She said she has bad eyes. Great Horned Owl in her, in her bra was tightly pressured against her skin. Wanted to study her pressure marks, sunken bloodless steps on her, leaps of red. I thought it must have hurt to wear such bra. To wear underwear she did shaping her form. She always had a nightgown for me with a cartoon figure. I loved her furniture. She hung her jewelry on corners of her dressing table with oval shaped mirror. Smelling her bottles, her sheets, her plastic pearls, her things, her and valuables, details, piled magazines in her closet. Hers, language of her. I looked for it through her hanging clothes sitting on the floor. I poured everything that was in the box on the floor. Language of clichés,
language of beauty
language of trauma
language of banality
language of architecture
language of aggression
language of being a child
language of being alive
language of acting out
language of close
language of an old woman
language of dust
language of turquoise.