The Enemy of the Good (eideteker) wrote,
The Enemy of the Good

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Three without focus.

I was consumed by a nervous energy today, and felt the need to write. What follows is some old-school, stream of consciousness stuff like my LJ used to be filled with.

I. I Learned
She rose, primrose and proper
shaking, from satin sheets
the bedframe creaked her name
the same from my heart in Morse-coded beats
nothing tacky in cardiac arrest
arresting as she was
I called her name just because
she turned
I learned
in a moment's glance at the changing shade in her face
there wasn't a chance our hearts were in the same place
I burned
spurned by a casual look
I learned
the space between us was... insurmountable
My love for her was bountiful
Her face, between us, was doubtful

II. Happy New Fear
In a moment's champagne dreams, the schemes amongst the clinking glasses come crashing down around us. As still the glasses resonate, we eat and fuck and defecate. The champagne surface ripples, while we lie and die and poverty triples. Not yet flat, the bubbles rise another newborn baby cries. The band strikes up like match to powder keg; mad, bearded prophets portend the end is nearer than it's ever been. You laugh, but are you laughing enough? Life's tough, rough, so let it all out while you can. It bubbles to the surface, tension; laughter fizzes and gets us high, up above where we can look down at this sorry state we've always been in. The world is going to the same hell it's always been. We're on the verge of the same cliff, as if the faintest breeze could knock us off. The merest breath of laughter.
Are you worried enough? Got enough stuff? to appease and please your id's unease, seize and seize and seize. Make a wall of it all ten feet tall til you feel small compared to the scale of it all. And then the faintest of laughter topples it all and you're crushed by the fall. But we can't have that so let's outlaw the release of tension and. see... what... happens.
Happy New Fear, may it be dreader than the last

III. point countercounterpoint
An uncertain lasering decapitates captives of a captive audience. Ensconced, entranced, entrance barred by the metric of a rising pressure risible in intensity. Shapes shift in shadowed onus owing their existence to the persistence of memory, vision. A risible dirigible, rising, eclipsing the moon eclipsing the sun and my mylar lens is useless. I have no ken of the reckoning that would wreck Ken. What I have wrought reeks something fierce and faceless, amorphous and placeless, like the amusing inversion of a dream. Dreamscapes and escapes narrowly scrape by, eking out an existence nightly in nature, nurturing nocturnal impulses impelling me to my impending end, without a friend to defend me from my tendencies and peculiarities.
Tags: stream of consciousness

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