“A useless love–a connection or affinity that doesn’t fit into the plans of anyone concerned”
It’s that can’t eat, can’t sleep, reach for the stars, over the fence, world series kind of stuff. You can read about it between the thin lines that separate the years of the skin and the wisdom of the mind. Refractive tendencies on sour dough with a side of judgement. Plastered on the wall that was built in conformity is a collage of all the red flags, signs of things that mustn’t be on the showroom floor. If one a bird the other a flightless and caged Passerine with a muted song. All of me that can be seen is not the me inside. All of me that I show on the floor is a reminder of who I ought not to be again, the raw fleshy exterior of the simplicity people accept as truth. In secrecy a quitter who gives no notice and gets none equally. A man in Portugal can still feel when it’s fucking over, whether it ended in 1966 or avalanched is inconsolably irrelevant.
Tattooed gypsy in a world of her own, who can’t eat. The cupboards left bare, the lazy Susan stagnant and the transient hangry. Chocolate waffles could not satiate the growling creature by the name of Covet. Unconventional rebel just for kicks in an oppressive world, she never sleeps. The bed sheets soaked from the sweat dripped from the barrage of dirty laundry and the vagabond drenched in irritability. Hot Coco could not revive the living dead who goes by the name of Muse. Reaching for the stars in a world forgetting by the world forgot, can she see the Eternal Sunshine of my Spotless Mind as seen by the derelict jury. Each wish is resigned and I say to the good Pope Alexander, I quit.
The metamorphosis between reality and the imagined is clear as tape. The residue of transgressions sticks to the shared mortality that necessitates sustenance. Shit. Muse and Covet are battling in anger out past right and wrong, in a field of mandrakes. Why must they be angry? The music dies on the days sorrow is instigated by separation. No dances and no wine. The tigers eat at night and the lion sleeps. Bare and drunk I still feel it, roots pull to my trunk above. My dimwitted inexperience is merely a subtle form of manipulation that serves to lower peoples expectations and enhances my maneuverability. To be loved is good. To be understood is profound. She might could understand the cryptic humor that lurks behind a Wonderwall. And maybe, she’s gonna be the one that saves me.