reflections of an art model (1)
this might be a new series.
(we'll have to see)
we have to see the sea, it's out my window, they're falling in the streets, they're bleeding in the streets, and i have cow blood on my heart and on my groin, the mornings are cool and lovely and perfect, and the birds that turned into bats are turning back to birds again, and i am seeing white feathers everywhere.
they say, in a kinmaya way, that i am un lazador de mundos (with white tones) ((baba fururu, u pwn me)) (xo x 8 plus +o in the 4 movements of the sun)
i just want to sleep. i am staring at a fox wrapped in bubble wrap, this isn't the first fox today, there's something about these foxes that will keep me up, but not yet. i am staring at the fox until it turns into a gun and this is part of the counter-revolution on wall street, where people trade guns in bubble wrap, but eventually the bubble wrap becomes the gun, an act of sympathetic capitalist magic where the container becomes the thing itself. but it's fake, and we've all been cheated, i kick at the walls with my punk motorcycle boots and ask simply that we wake up after i nap, but i am already napping, being drawn in charcoal and pencil and already napping, and the french girls are trying to kill the boys with their stares but no one is dying, it's frustrating, it's not the french girls' fault, it never is, and my daughter tells me to stop interrupting because she has something important to tell me about how her friend was talking just as fast as she was.
this is the week of fast-talking children, making something out of all of this.
but i am already dreaming, i am already so far asleep, and the smell of the blood is starting to turn on, and someone tells me something about someone moving away and she's living somewhere with someone and honestly, i don't want to know, i really don't want to know any more about that. i am dreaming, but it's obvious that i am half-awake, but these objects in my hands are turning long again, and this is not my dream, i am not alone, suddenly, at the fringes of a hot summer about to turn mystic, i am not alone, and this could be the best news i have heard all day. love is shades of blue and chrome brown eyes that i won't forget as long as she's gone, and it comes haunting in shades of blue against sheets of rain, there is a scene there, inside the sheets there is a scene, and i can't quite make out the figures but i think one of them is me and one of them is not.
and before i can go through the rain, there are teenage boys asking for things, and there are sad girls wishing the noise would just stop, and there are curious boys and girls eating ice cream somewhere on the fringes of the world. everyone wants to get past the sheets of rain to where the magic is starting to move things, but we have to wait, because we have sheets to fold and other people's dreams to dream, and there are foxes gathering at the edges of this forest, this african forest that is always so strangely inflected with slavic teeth, and my ancestors are moving in the blood in my jaw, they keep telling me to look at the nine of cups, and when i finally talk in my sleep loud enough to let them know that i am listening to the nine of cups, something starts to catch fire, and this is going to be another long night, one that could last nine months if we're lucky.
this might be a new series.
(we'll have to see)
we have to see the sea, it's out my window, they're falling in the streets, they're bleeding in the streets, and i have cow blood on my heart and on my groin, the mornings are cool and lovely and perfect, and the birds that turned into bats are turning back to birds again, and i am seeing white feathers everywhere.
they say, in a kinmaya way, that i am un lazador de mundos (with white tones) ((baba fururu, u pwn me)) (xo x 8 plus +o in the 4 movements of the sun)
i just want to sleep. i am staring at a fox wrapped in bubble wrap, this isn't the first fox today, there's something about these foxes that will keep me up, but not yet. i am staring at the fox until it turns into a gun and this is part of the counter-revolution on wall street, where people trade guns in bubble wrap, but eventually the bubble wrap becomes the gun, an act of sympathetic capitalist magic where the container becomes the thing itself. but it's fake, and we've all been cheated, i kick at the walls with my punk motorcycle boots and ask simply that we wake up after i nap, but i am already napping, being drawn in charcoal and pencil and already napping, and the french girls are trying to kill the boys with their stares but no one is dying, it's frustrating, it's not the french girls' fault, it never is, and my daughter tells me to stop interrupting because she has something important to tell me about how her friend was talking just as fast as she was.
this is the week of fast-talking children, making something out of all of this.
but i am already dreaming, i am already so far asleep, and the smell of the blood is starting to turn on, and someone tells me something about someone moving away and she's living somewhere with someone and honestly, i don't want to know, i really don't want to know any more about that. i am dreaming, but it's obvious that i am half-awake, but these objects in my hands are turning long again, and this is not my dream, i am not alone, suddenly, at the fringes of a hot summer about to turn mystic, i am not alone, and this could be the best news i have heard all day. love is shades of blue and chrome brown eyes that i won't forget as long as she's gone, and it comes haunting in shades of blue against sheets of rain, there is a scene there, inside the sheets there is a scene, and i can't quite make out the figures but i think one of them is me and one of them is not.
and before i can go through the rain, there are teenage boys asking for things, and there are sad girls wishing the noise would just stop, and there are curious boys and girls eating ice cream somewhere on the fringes of the world. everyone wants to get past the sheets of rain to where the magic is starting to move things, but we have to wait, because we have sheets to fold and other people's dreams to dream, and there are foxes gathering at the edges of this forest, this african forest that is always so strangely inflected with slavic teeth, and my ancestors are moving in the blood in my jaw, they keep telling me to look at the nine of cups, and when i finally talk in my sleep loud enough to let them know that i am listening to the nine of cups, something starts to catch fire, and this is going to be another long night, one that could last nine months if we're lucky.
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