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
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.