Plathological

year, year, ____: "Don't you know? You're out cold./Don't you know? It's our dance floor!"

I am forcing time to be an endless, damp body, blackout, sunken ship standing on end, nothing left to navigate. I am stretching it out to the slotted weight of decimal point and fitting it into the confinement of bathroom stalls & birthmarks through sleeplessness and documentation, your imitation of my voice as reference point--gender, & regular phone calls, locked away. Lately, the base, hungry aesthetic: I am always squinting my eyes for ice-clear perception, lifting my bottom lids, thinning the room. My mind is one in a series. You know when you have this vision, and you couldn't imagine your life without its hot edges and it's all you've ever wanted, and all you ever will want and you could never want anything other than this constantly all-consuming vision? I have this vision; it rarely, if ever, leaves me. It goes something like this: picture a blank page, hallways at all hours, not having a need to speak through lyrics, though the option is always there, the present tense, going days without adding something to the room--letting the environment sink in, before another light hits it, an axis behind your back, saying, as it tilts & glints, "I thought you knew: there isn't a set time; this is just a light." Only one of these things I can hold in my hand, to mouth. It's the only thing I can live with in a tangible reality--& it's constructed--recorded parallax, for YOU, the other things are dreams, by default, but also because of all the properties that make them dreams: density level, steam, peculiar off-hours of recognition. It's taking a desperately long time for my apple tea to cool. I am permitting myself one month of real, true, fully felt, unsuppressed emotion: my mouth could be stained red with timing. Starting now. I'm going soft for awhile, closer to the heart. I am liable to cry at any time, and, when I do, I expect you to be good to me. The word go makes my body take a peculiar shape. This bitch has needs, an emdashed brotherhood: clearly written dates, the sheets, documentation of eyecolour, the public service, relevance, put your headphones on, PUT YOUR FUCKING HEADPHONES ON (again---I'm outta time, I'm outta fuckin time, I'm a gasoline gut with a vaseline mind but, Wanna disco? Wanna see me disco? Let me hear you depoliticise my rhyme):

Posted by caroline at December 16, 2005 4:19 AM