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Description
I have learned something about fucking.

But we should step back. Yes, definitely. You hardly, after all, know me. And that certainly won't do for first impressions. I apologize, clink my glass. Yes, the lights are pulsating and slipping (spilling), reflecting through bottles and faces. The bartender pours liquid crystal from a bottle of Tequila and from here it is insinuated with neon light. But that's not where I'm at right now. Apologies, my memory skitters from thing to thing. It is a noisy jackrabbit that never ceases. A noisy jackhammer that never ceases. One or the other.

I have found that I like to become mist and reflections and then collect myself again in water glasses and passing reflective surfaces. I am doing that now. On a fast moving train across indeterminable stretches of land, I stare at my reflection in the black window and watch streaks of strip-mall light routinely slice through it, twist it, distort it. In that bar I was speaking of, the place we met (do you remember?), I was doing it too. Silhouette of thin face staring out at me from a glass of rum and coke, dissolving into rings, ripples, wavelengths. When you take a drink I am snapped out of my trance, but instead concentrate on the pattern in the woodwork. A fast-moving line across indeterminable stretches of land, routinely maneuvering around knots (buildings), concentric circles (sidewalks). The glass is set down again, it interrupts. It is a barricade. A sudden landslide. A collapsed tunnel. Crash!

Oh my. I can hear the people screaming. I can see the hands raised up into the air in fear, calling for help, crying out in horror.

No, no, wait, no. Neon light. Liquid crystal. Someone has just scored in the baseball game that is being broadcast across the tele in the bar. That flickering light (fire). That noise (death).

You speak and I stare into your face. You speak and I stare right past your face. (One or the other). The frail light catches the caverns of it, the meandering of your bones, your hollow sharp facial structure. It also catches your eyes, glinting, blue, ravenous tidepools, no, oceans, no, riptides, rivers, lakes, tributaries (your arteries). Violently turning. Or is it the light?

Exhale of sharp smoke from cigarette. Breathe it in. Feel it against your cheek bones. Feel it slide between your lips, feel it slide past your taste buds, down through your esophagus, into the lungs, drowning, drowning, but the scent! The glorious scent. I wish I could drown forever in it, but you prematurely stab out your cancerstick in the ashtray adjacent, pushing into plastic, ash, carcasses. For a second, the cigarette gives its last dying breath, a thin wisp of smoke against the light of the bar. Again tinted (tainted) with neon. Again tinting (tainting) my neurons. One or the other.

I have learned something about fucking. I am walking through grey light (it insinuates the landscape, it desaturates all faces), down escalators (descent, departure, to Hades, to Hell), through streets (sourceless noise, constant ticking, buzzing, whirring, driving). I am oddly lucid. I hear everything, see everything, look up, look around. Things move by in the sort of silent, quiet lucidity that marks you not as a concrete mass, but as a ghost, a spirit, passing noise. Ripples, wavelengths, a fast-moving vestige across indeterminable stretches of land.

Through the window to your bedroom. I am reflected again. Somehow hazy. Cars outside. Tall buildings. Marine haze, fog.

You bite your lip, taste metallic. And there is sweat, too. And a pulse, dull thumping drums (heartbeat?). Akyl nitrites pitter-patter-pop! And a warmth in my head. I think my ears are on fire. I feel my blood thump through grey matter, forcing its way out my temples, blood veins. They push out, made visible. I bit your lip, too. Tasted metallic. Bit my own lip. Couldn't taste it. And oh my. This warmth, this sweat, the fact that

Things shift. 'I' erodes. Synapses delay. Signals take time enroute from eye to brain. The world is like frames projected too slowly on an old projector, persistence of vision aiding in the subtle fading in and fading out of light and image. Snapshots of broken motion. But I see you, still. Your eyes are closed. No. Open. Open wide. Canticles of night. I can not read them. They are not text (they are noise). There is something there. That something is nothing. An empty glaze (an empty gaze). Two hollow holes, pointed upwards, ringed by

Pools of blue. Riptides. Tributaries. Empty lakes. Two empty lakes. I can not bear it.

I think you remembered how I used to place my hand around your mouth and press, firmly, immovably, blocking your nasal cavity as well, denying you breath. Or your neck, too, constricting your esophagus. It didn't matter. I could send any number of electrical pulses through your body, hold off breath for any number of minutes, leave you lightheaded, spinning, on the verge of blackout, leave marks in your skin (claw, flog, whip, paddle). Would you care? Is your only desire to free yourself from flesh? Your secret, hidden, oh so latent need, with this act as your subtle subterfuge? A way to achieve, or at least catch a glimpse of, that illusive dichotomy between flesh and mind, to split into two separate entities, one observing the other, to drive out all those

Noises. The noises. The fucking noises you always hear. When you're in a room and too many people start to talk it becomes an unbearable cacophony and it makes you want to drive a stake through your forehead. It is that noise, but internalized. It is the buzzing of one hundred thoughts, a symphony where every violin screeches in search of a note it can not reach.

Fuck it. Fuck it. You are me. What am I doing here? That should all be in italics. That should be another voice. When I say 'you' I should say 'I', when I say 'yours', I should say 'mine'. The reality, here, is reversed. It is you looking down on me. It is I with the riptide eyes, the hollow pools of black iris goop. Can you bear it? Can you? I'm looking down on me too. These things separated long ago. You can run any amount of voltage through my skin, constrict any amount of breathing, make any number of marks. Do you know where all it goes? I am absorbing it. I am feeding off of it. It is energy, life. And the more you do, the more I separate. It is divine. An out-of-body experience (for who, after all, would inhabit a body so quartered with marks, so denied breath, so carefully defiled? For who, after all, would inhabit a body so damned distorted, so horribly contorted? The unnatural swelling of thigh. The outgrown mole on the back (a speck of brown-black). The legs, red follicles, unsmooth, the nose, crooked, the mouth, unformed, the forehead, too high, the hair, perpetually out of place.)

Not even I. Akyl nitrites pitter-patter-pop. Sight becomes ringed with grey-black, slowed to a blur. Sounds become hollow. Eyes with a predilection more towards the back of the head (checking in on the brain, saying hello). Go ahead. Any amount of voltage. Any number of marks. Any amount of restraint, any number of vile words. I may not even feel it (so far gone, now). I definitely won't hear it, probably won't see it. The noises are gone, if even for a moment. Divine silence. Sublime silence. Any amount of breath. Any number of marks. Go ahead. Do it. Fucking do it.

I have learned something about fucking.
But I can not tell you what.

Description
I have learned something about fucking.

But we should step back. Yes, definitely. You hardly, after all, know me. And that certainly won't do for first impressions. I apologize, clink my glass. Yes, the lights are pulsating and slipping (spilling), reflecting through bottles and faces. The bartender pours liquid crystal from a bottle of Tequila and from here it is insinuated with neon light. But that's not where I'm at right now. Apologies, my memory skitters from thing to thing. It is a noisy jackrabbit that never ceases. A noisy jackhammer that never ceases. One or the other.

I have found that I like to become mist and reflections and then collect myself again in water glasses and passing reflective surfaces. I am doing that now. On a fast moving train across indeterminable stretches of land, I stare at my reflection in the black window and watch streaks of strip-mall light routinely slice through it, twist it, distort it. In that bar I was speaking of, the place we met (do you remember?), I was doing it too. Silhouette of thin face staring out at me from a glass of rum and coke, dissolving into rings, ripples, wavelengths. When you take a drink I am snapped out of my trance, but instead concentrate on the pattern in the woodwork. A fast-moving line across indeterminable stretches of land, routinely maneuvering around knots (buildings), concentric circles (sidewalks). The glass is set down again, it interrupts. It is a barricade. A sudden landslide. A collapsed tunnel. Crash!

Oh my. I can hear the people screaming. I can see the hands raised up into the air in fear, calling for help, crying out in horror.

No, no, wait, no. Neon light. Liquid crystal. Someone has just scored in the baseball game that is being broadcast across the tele in the bar. That flickering light (fire). That noise (death).

You speak and I stare into your face. You speak and I stare right past your face. (One or the other). The frail light catches the caverns of it, the meandering of your bones, your hollow sharp facial structure. It also catches your eyes, glinting, blue, ravenous tidepools, no, oceans, no, riptides, rivers, lakes, tributaries (your arteries). Violently turning. Or is it the light?

Exhale of sharp smoke from cigarette. Breathe it in. Feel it against your cheek bones. Feel it slide between your lips, feel it slide past your taste buds, down through your esophagus, into the lungs, drowning, drowning, but the scent! The glorious scent. I wish I could drown forever in it, but you prematurely stab out your cancerstick in the ashtray adjacent, pushing into plastic, ash, carcasses. For a second, the cigarette gives its last dying breath, a thin wisp of smoke against the light of the bar. Again tinted (tainted) with neon. Again tinting (tainting) my neurons. One or the other.

I have learned something about fucking. I am walking through grey light (it insinuates the landscape, it desaturates all faces), down escalators (descent, departure, to Hades, to Hell), through streets (sourceless noise, constant ticking, buzzing, whirring, driving). I am oddly lucid. I hear everything, see everything, look up, look around. Things move by in the sort of silent, quiet lucidity that marks you not as a concrete mass, but as a ghost, a spirit, passing noise. Ripples, wavelengths, a fast-moving vestige across indeterminable stretches of land.

Through the window to your bedroom. I am reflected again. Somehow hazy. Cars outside. Tall buildings. Marine haze, fog.

You bite your lip, taste metallic. And there is sweat, too. And a pulse, dull thumping drums (heartbeat?). Akyl nitrites pitter-patter-pop! And a warmth in my head. I think my ears are on fire. I feel my blood thump through grey matter, forcing its way out my temples, blood veins. They push out, made visible. I bit your lip, too. Tasted metallic. Bit my own lip. Couldn't taste it. And oh my. This warmth, this sweat, the fact that

Things shift. 'I' erodes. Synapses delay. Signals take time enroute from eye to brain. The world is like frames projected too slowly on an old projector, persistence of vision aiding in the subtle fading in and fading out of light and image. Snapshots of broken motion. But I see you, still. Your eyes are closed. No. Open. Open wide. Canticles of night. I can not read them. They are not text (they are noise). There is something there. That something is nothing. An empty glaze (an empty gaze). Two hollow holes, pointed upwards, ringed by

Pools of blue. Riptides. Tributaries. Empty lakes. Two empty lakes. I can not bear it.

I think you remembered how I used to place my hand around your mouth and press, firmly, immovably, blocking your nasal cavity as well, denying you breath. Or your neck, too, constricting your esophagus. It didn't matter. I could send any number of electrical pulses through your body, hold off breath for any number of minutes, leave you lightheaded, spinning, on the verge of blackout, leave marks in your skin (claw, flog, whip, paddle). Would you care? Is your only desire to free yourself from flesh? Your secret, hidden, oh so latent need, with this act as your subtle subterfuge? A way to achieve, or at least catch a glimpse of, that illusive dichotomy between flesh and mind, to split into two separate entities, one observing the other, to drive out all those

Noises. The noises. The fucking noises you always hear. When you're in a room and too many people start to talk it becomes an unbearable cacophony and it makes you want to drive a stake through your forehead. It is that noise, but internalized. It is the buzzing of one hundred thoughts, a symphony where every violin screeches in search of a note it can not reach.

Fuck it. Fuck it. You are me. What am I doing here? That should all be in italics. That should be another voice. When I say 'you' I should say 'I', when I say 'yours', I should say 'mine'. The reality, here, is reversed. It is you looking down on me. It is I with the riptide eyes, the hollow pools of black iris goop. Can you bear it? Can you? I'm looking down on me too. These things separated long ago. You can run any amount of voltage through my skin, constrict any amount of breathing, make any number of marks. Do you know where all it goes? I am absorbing it. I am feeding off of it. It is energy, life. And the more you do, the more I separate. It is divine. An out-of-body experience (for who, after all, would inhabit a body so quartered with marks, so denied breath, so carefully defiled? For who, after all, would inhabit a body so damned distorted, so horribly contorted? The unnatural swelling of thigh. The outgrown mole on the back (a speck of brown-black). The legs, red follicles, unsmooth, the nose, crooked, the mouth, unformed, the forehead, too high, the hair, perpetually out of place.)

Not even I. Akyl nitrites pitter-patter-pop. Sight becomes ringed with grey-black, slowed to a blur. Sounds become hollow. Eyes with a predilection more towards the back of the head (checking in on the brain, saying hello). Go ahead. Any amount of voltage. Any number of marks. Any amount of restraint, any number of vile words. I may not even feel it (so far gone, now). I definitely won't hear it, probably won't see it. The noises are gone, if even for a moment. Divine silence. Sublime silence. Any amount of breath. Any number of marks. Go ahead. Do it. Fucking do it.

I have learned something about fucking.
But I can not tell you what.