Could you have imagined that headyness and sorrow would meet as derailed train cars, late at night, each night? Your frantic memories blowing past each other, piling, falling out of coach windows. Your midnight misery. Screen torture before bed.
Where deep longing meets small time small bit structure. Screen structure, screen torture.
More cars now – the sex instinct. The coach of aggression, the fullback red root chakra at the rear – struggling, losing ground.
In the front, more screen shouting. The laying out of numbers, loosely heart tied, loosely history tied, habit tied now. The shouting out at small time screen coachwomen.
Ticket passions, reluctant. Your headstrong, sorrowstrong derailment.
More cars now – steaming, fuming, piling, later in the night. Aggression toppling over envy, getting piston-stuck.
Lack of control is painted everywhere, on every buildingside and mountain face passed. Lack of control across the side of every car, and working upstream.
Lustful engine, steaming, conquer trying. Envious.
Screens, yellowing your face, you couldn’t have imagined this.
When deep longing gurgles in oil thick basins below you. Muckup all control.
With a burning toplayer to blur your sight.
Lets take some time to see this more slowly. Past ten, the body leans forward, hotter, wanting more. At least two hours full steam past. Shouting, panting, drooling, sucking at a brave screen silhouette.
Past ten resting on curdled carpet cakes, linoleum knee mounts spreading and cracking. Rail tumbling. Downrail.
A seventh car, added somwhere unaware, remorse.
This car weighed down heavy by habit baggage, this habit. This habit new and old, past and present, cells dripping with memory and anticipation.
This late night habit, stalling life.
Supplementing experience with a steadyness and plodding of the grotesque.
This train car moving habit, the sex one, the sex of this. This is the sex of no sex, the tearing of muscle, the drenching of the feminine, the strong ox bow, steady, plodding low gurgling low. Sick steady, Railbound.
You are left behind because of this, on the wrong car, in the wrong car. Left to experience the trembling and inch forwarding of derailment.
This is experience of no experience, late at night.
More slowly, this experience is yours, at least that. Always that.
Eye habits, crouching formations under a crackling desk, slick hardwood. Your experience.
At least an expertise in something. A gutter expert or a limp conductor. Your experience.
A deep education in sorrow and then the station.
Wanting
The wanting track. All wanting.
The wanting mind. The every body leaning forward. Crouched foward, also remoseful in mind. Also envious. Also wanting.
Well past midnight. Wanting. A fore shot, a quick believer, steady plodding, want engine. Branded wanting. Patented wanting.
Could you ever have imagined this style of wanting? Wanting from the gutter. Off track, off life, out of the body.
Head sorrow.
Deep, late night wanting. Yelling at screen delusions, artifacts of lust. Wanting. Sorrow. Train. Downrail.
Lustful downrail. Limp conductor. Head.
Limp conductor, lustful sorrow. Wanting.
Limp wanting, at lust artifacts.
Deeper wanting at the decreasing ideals. The artifacts of Venus.
Venus screen shouting back and limp wanting. Lustful conductor of your Venus artifact, limp conductor, head sorrow.
Impossible to imagine this. Your own style of wanting.
Variations on a theme, Venus artifact.
The Venus artifact etudes. The screen screaming scherzos.
Box heavy head. At night. Your own style of sorrow, only here, at least yours.
Your limp head sorrow. Box heavy tumbling downrail. At least yours.
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