Just this, a little more here, like this.
Yes, exactly like this, keep going, but be patient, it might take awhile before your body turns blue like it does.
Not thirsty, either, short answer, short reply to a poem written in clouds, I'm not thirsty at all, is what he would say, and that would be enough, like the knock on the wall if you ask if the ghost is in the room, that answer, I am not thirsty either, is like the knock on the wall. He should stop there. But he keeps talking, keeps on like that, because there's too much more to say, he wants to say, "I want to be haunted by your ghost." "Is that all right, is that all right with you?" and "Baby, I don't want to know." It's terrible or sweet that every song reminds him of her, like she came through his sacred spaces and sprinkled him with the white powder, except he gets the feeling that they were both sprinkled, that something else was doing the sprinkling, like it were planned, like it was something that they were supposed to do, and he wants to know what he is supposed to do next, and there's nothing to do next except talk about what it feels like to be inside a charm, to be so utterly and completely charmed, and this, this is suddenly science, where they say that scientifically love, that first blush whatever whatever bullshit whatever, only lasts a year, or a year and a half, and then the brain gets used to the chemistry and starts to settle in and look for the rocking chair and the bag of chips and the conversations with each other about heart smart food.
And suddenly this is a year, and it's supposed to have changed at least a little, that infatuation, or curiosity, should change a little bit, a little bit less, a little less like a storm, not like riding a white horse at midnight at the edges of the sea, more like a rocking horse, dadadadada, just like that. It shouldn't be so out of the body and into the body, but when he sees her, in a crowd by a door by a table, through a window where the shades go transparent, suddenly and utterly, where he sees her and he is aware that the skin on his body has become like those shades, utterly and suddenly transparent to her, and his eyes are open, the pupils dilate all the way, because he lets her all the way in, and she lets him all the way in, and instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable it is exactly the same thing that happens to wolves who have lost each other for a long time, they just open to each other, like wolves, or lovers who meet over lifetimes, or strands of dna (there's so much science in this), they just open and it feels like the symbol gets completed, or the bell finds its tone, or any number of mainstream references, you complete me, blabla da da da.
There should be more but time is so short and suddenly he remembers there is just not enough Bjork, and there should be, who knows why, maybe because he is the same age as Bjork and that's kind of hot.
Yes, exactly like this, keep going, but be patient, it might take awhile before your body turns blue like it does.
Not thirsty, either, short answer, short reply to a poem written in clouds, I'm not thirsty at all, is what he would say, and that would be enough, like the knock on the wall if you ask if the ghost is in the room, that answer, I am not thirsty either, is like the knock on the wall. He should stop there. But he keeps talking, keeps on like that, because there's too much more to say, he wants to say, "I want to be haunted by your ghost." "Is that all right, is that all right with you?" and "Baby, I don't want to know." It's terrible or sweet that every song reminds him of her, like she came through his sacred spaces and sprinkled him with the white powder, except he gets the feeling that they were both sprinkled, that something else was doing the sprinkling, like it were planned, like it was something that they were supposed to do, and he wants to know what he is supposed to do next, and there's nothing to do next except talk about what it feels like to be inside a charm, to be so utterly and completely charmed, and this, this is suddenly science, where they say that scientifically love, that first blush whatever whatever bullshit whatever, only lasts a year, or a year and a half, and then the brain gets used to the chemistry and starts to settle in and look for the rocking chair and the bag of chips and the conversations with each other about heart smart food.
And suddenly this is a year, and it's supposed to have changed at least a little, that infatuation, or curiosity, should change a little bit, a little bit less, a little less like a storm, not like riding a white horse at midnight at the edges of the sea, more like a rocking horse, dadadadada, just like that. It shouldn't be so out of the body and into the body, but when he sees her, in a crowd by a door by a table, through a window where the shades go transparent, suddenly and utterly, where he sees her and he is aware that the skin on his body has become like those shades, utterly and suddenly transparent to her, and his eyes are open, the pupils dilate all the way, because he lets her all the way in, and she lets him all the way in, and instead of feeling exposed or vulnerable it is exactly the same thing that happens to wolves who have lost each other for a long time, they just open to each other, like wolves, or lovers who meet over lifetimes, or strands of dna (there's so much science in this), they just open and it feels like the symbol gets completed, or the bell finds its tone, or any number of mainstream references, you complete me, blabla da da da.
There should be more but time is so short and suddenly he remembers there is just not enough Bjork, and there should be, who knows why, maybe because he is the same age as Bjork and that's kind of hot.
No comments:
Post a Comment