Outside of any of these frames, we might not exist at all.
These things need a pretense for beginning, so that they have weight, so that they have depth, so that they have some place to begin, or maybe that's all, just an anchor for a beginning, otherwise we would all be like nervous flamingos, pecking around each other until one falls over on the other and a new love story can begin. My best days are marked by an impossible relationship with gravity, where my closest relationships with men began with an extraordinary spill (a pint of stout, a bottle of habanero sauce). My closest loves are marked with extraordinary spills that fly through rooms like the same flamingos in an earthquake, and that's all just a complex way of saying something simple, these fluid relationships are made from fluid and we are fluid and at the end of the day we are as much water as we were at the beginning, and no death is worse than dehydration.
This pretense, this particular moment in Berlin, began in another country, close to where Hitler was born, and suddenly this story has so much more weight, because that name was mentioned. And it's true, and there are caves where he was collecting Jewish art that have been turned into more subversive displays against forgetting, and in this scenario, I found myself thinking of you, only you, except it was not you, because you were a bit of a vampire from Slovenia then, in those days, in those times, and there is someone out there who still is. She had the same name as the Nazi's girlfriend (and maybe this is why I am particularly drawn to anyone who begins by refusing to be a girlfriend, although it would make the garden parties so much easier), and that name reminded me of a German-Irish vampire who was only 25 percent Jewish, that is to say, as much as me (I think).
The other, the first vampire (first of the new century, because there were so many in the 80s, or rather, KVD held most dear to the staked heart), unfolded paper mermaids in my bed but they wouldn't be born for another three years. This one also made a moat around the canals of my heart that made it possible for things to flow later on, and so in this regard, she is very much like the Hohokam, not just because she wants to be, because she once had a dream catcher hanging from her rear view mirror. She now folds in on a cave where Hitler collected art, and she becomes you only in a vague resemblance, because you share 98% of the same dna. She liked her coffee sweet though, not sugar sweet, caramel sweet, and that should have been enough of a portent that it would go bad, but here is maybe the only thing that is true: I always see things going bad, that's where I can tell the future, and I'm always right. It's not in the sense of how we all die and we all decay and meet the worms in the earth eventually. And not in the sense that I'm afraid of something close, so I write these endings in my head before they happen, and then they happen, on their own or because I push them there.
No, it actually is like that exactly, in that sense, and I don't know if I pushed or was pushed, but I am sleeping alone these days, and I don't mind it a bit, because the twitching is working itself out in private, but I wonder which was which and where I stepped and where I got stepped on, and before I let it rewrite me for the fingernail scratchings of another year, I want to make things right where I was wrong, and write the things that are raw, and wrap the things that write in rites.
There's a fine line between clever and stupid.
These things need a pretense for beginning, so that they have weight, so that they have depth, so that they have some place to begin, or maybe that's all, just an anchor for a beginning, otherwise we would all be like nervous flamingos, pecking around each other until one falls over on the other and a new love story can begin. My best days are marked by an impossible relationship with gravity, where my closest relationships with men began with an extraordinary spill (a pint of stout, a bottle of habanero sauce). My closest loves are marked with extraordinary spills that fly through rooms like the same flamingos in an earthquake, and that's all just a complex way of saying something simple, these fluid relationships are made from fluid and we are fluid and at the end of the day we are as much water as we were at the beginning, and no death is worse than dehydration.
This pretense, this particular moment in Berlin, began in another country, close to where Hitler was born, and suddenly this story has so much more weight, because that name was mentioned. And it's true, and there are caves where he was collecting Jewish art that have been turned into more subversive displays against forgetting, and in this scenario, I found myself thinking of you, only you, except it was not you, because you were a bit of a vampire from Slovenia then, in those days, in those times, and there is someone out there who still is. She had the same name as the Nazi's girlfriend (and maybe this is why I am particularly drawn to anyone who begins by refusing to be a girlfriend, although it would make the garden parties so much easier), and that name reminded me of a German-Irish vampire who was only 25 percent Jewish, that is to say, as much as me (I think).
The other, the first vampire (first of the new century, because there were so many in the 80s, or rather, KVD held most dear to the staked heart), unfolded paper mermaids in my bed but they wouldn't be born for another three years. This one also made a moat around the canals of my heart that made it possible for things to flow later on, and so in this regard, she is very much like the Hohokam, not just because she wants to be, because she once had a dream catcher hanging from her rear view mirror. She now folds in on a cave where Hitler collected art, and she becomes you only in a vague resemblance, because you share 98% of the same dna. She liked her coffee sweet though, not sugar sweet, caramel sweet, and that should have been enough of a portent that it would go bad, but here is maybe the only thing that is true: I always see things going bad, that's where I can tell the future, and I'm always right. It's not in the sense of how we all die and we all decay and meet the worms in the earth eventually. And not in the sense that I'm afraid of something close, so I write these endings in my head before they happen, and then they happen, on their own or because I push them there.
No, it actually is like that exactly, in that sense, and I don't know if I pushed or was pushed, but I am sleeping alone these days, and I don't mind it a bit, because the twitching is working itself out in private, but I wonder which was which and where I stepped and where I got stepped on, and before I let it rewrite me for the fingernail scratchings of another year, I want to make things right where I was wrong, and write the things that are raw, and wrap the things that write in rites.
There's a fine line between clever and stupid.
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