You stumble on the stairs to your brothel in the sky. The cairn at the bottom rests as memorial to your emotions of yesteryear. The seasons change, wind makes due with itself, girls play in the corridors of the city streets. Not grimy, but definitely nothing rustic, either. There are ways to go about being yourself that, you say to others, a normal person could not feel without insect feelers. There are eyes on the underwater shrimp which emits supersonic pulses to kill crabs and open clams that sense 18 different photonic ranges. Science only knows.
But that’s the half of it. There are things in this universe which painters would love to get to know, darling, but darling, no painter will paint. The hue of the sky when you weep limits my personal damage to a min. and there are sweets on the table. I kiss you. Your eyes dry. There there, there there.
Simple patterns enter my mind and I whisper in your ear that the elephants can hear us from Africa. The glue drying on the chair to fix its cracks of age are disparaging to the elderly but beautiful in the mend’ment they bestow. Lye and rum all around the bar. Lye and rum.
Not sweater season yet, we must wait nine months to inoculate the generational gap between you and I. And were we older it would not matter the least. So take the stopwatch hanging on the wall and stymy gender, wage, and schooling disparities on the nickel, on the dime. Stopping a quarter past the wheel mistakes no sense to the courier. Stopping so fast does not do.
Lift your folder and smack me across the face with it. I listen to tunes of jazz and blues to lift the blow. Powerful candles hiss in the corner of the room but no one sees them, for they are hidden in jars of rainbow steel.
I left the era knowing some things change into things that victims of hate remember because some remember to hate. It is nothing new. It is nothing revolutionary.