versailles (gori_gori_bayan) wrote,

Blonde Fugue & Segue Celesta.

The muses that haunt my pacings seemingly unsettle others, as they, in their all but pedestrian haunches, lope about their lives struggling, so inconspicuously, to appear and remain anything but. However, that’s on par with my standards, as on this early or late night, depending on how you would deem fit, I am amidst a voracious cold in the most stationary of clothing, eyes hazed as cotton, clothes as thin as tissue, and a certain slant of madness that, at this hour and depth, can only be viewed as somewhat British, if one is to take oneself seriously, least of all. A Mark Twain chest-thumper this is not; his story being much more controversial than mine, but I don’t rightly care for the lad much: him being neither here nor there anyway. Here a personal harangue would utterly lombast you with grey, for even I myself, the subject and absolute heart of the matter, am neither here nor there... And of this abstract neglect, from which you sit, as in position, to swoon your head and spit dark fairytales of it. Oh please, stop, stop; we’re harboring on pity, as is only allowed by grieving or stale woe... Darklings touch in the harem, with a glint... Wish to be this night, the moon scythe weaned off its ink tits: Blond Fugue & Segue Celesta.

For this address to become a course anything other than apology I must be open to suggestion, and thusly I am and will pay for it but, nonetheless, my shoulder wings are heavy from carrying too false a confidence upon my neck – to tell you the truth; I’d welcome the relief. My relationship with Ego is purely parasitic in nature, eating away far more than it feeds. And here ‘feeds’ can be taken in the palindromic sense, digested if you will, no pun intended… So I will take suggestions for anything other than an apology to weather these limbs and lungs back along the aslant and wayward sounds smells and fixtures of misery malody moon-driven melanoma and all such despondent testimonies of me: where I’ve been and who I’ve been there with… However, I am, as such, a wayward shadow, standing on the wrong side of Light, alit and dismal in a tunnel, incapable of writing something dog-eared and beautiful to account for where I’ve been, or even where I now occupy and, if somewhat dazedly, stand. I only write for you, M____, in hopes you will accept this knowledge and be assured to the fact that I am very much still alive and somewhat divine - as much as one can be at this deep an hour clad in a black, spider-silk nightcap and a terry bathrobe the colour of cloud – and wondering how you are faring on such a google-dicated 39 degree night in Naples, Florida: very much away from me, and vey much missing, as you have been for many a day. I implore you, do not mistaken your darling SKI for having increased in strength or even resilience in this lengthening silence. Much has been made of my misery, and, falling apart steadily, even unconsciously... I cry out to you for help. I do not know if you even still desire this deconstructed shipwreck of romance, storytales, and despair, but, if so, call me. Tell me that you love me. And never quit until convinced am I of your love of me and of our love together. I am in much need of reassurance. What has passed for happiness is slung on my hip, assailed by the Asteroid Belt, leaving me hollowed out like a honeycomb. You have some sweet, sticky filling I desire.

Love Letters,


P.S. As to where I've been [and this is dictated to Life] matters little in the purpose of narration or, even, memoir endeavors. Absences on all fronts have lead to lengthening in durations [and this is probably dictated to the one I hope still loves me] but forgive me, I am weak. and all strength I have left is devoted to madness, and exhausted in the falling apart. I am a bit mousy, nibbling on whatever memory you can afford to give me. However, this is getting better, as I'm growing tame in adulthood. This holiday would seem to eat me of the title of ‘Closet Gloat,’ to which the last mineral traces of Ego can be named and placed. I'm through on lecturing myself: have deadened the bolts in my legs and lungs, hung in a tree lynched for a lexicon grown stale. Star-struck by one's own syllabification, granted the mirror's reflection is an aberrate desire: DEAD, by and by. What has been written hasn't been seen in weeks and I have lost all the writing I've done for FUCKING AUTUMN!!! ... It's okay. At some age importance will roll with the moss and burn with nuclear fusion tripwires. A guesswork would suggest a fear of being myself. What do you call that, hmmm? I feel really neglected; but 'really' is an all-too weak avenue in which to voice yourself. Be something stronger... If I am to seem a bit scatter-brained, confused, with my communication bearing the very dirt smudge of childishness, forgive me, if patience will allow it; for I am really, really, stupid and am currently struggling with Thematic Desensitivity Issues. Madness, I find, to be like the stray threads of rawhide, fraying. It takes a logical cooling, like mathematics, which in turn becomes an almost Sisyphian soothing. Here we shall take the Sieve of Eratosthenes: a procedure for finding prime numbers that involves writing down the odd numbers from 2 up in succession and crossing out every 3rd number after 3, every 5th after 5 including those already crossed out, every 7th after 7, and so on with the numbers that are never crossed out being PRIME.

Cement walls expand with heat. A house breathes in the sun, chokes in the cold. I am in the house that chokes with cold. What am I...
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