Whoever seizes the greatest unreality will shape the greatest reality.
—Hugo von Hofmannsthal
Best of friends
are like Borromean rings,
tight as Brunnian braids.
In the course of this strange odyssey
that we are embarking on . . .
have I told you how much I miss hearing
about Michael Jackson in the news?
History tells me nothing,
except that my body
could be a wonderland
as my youth slowly vanishes.
I wonder
what feeling
could be if it were
our only source of energy.
Rabbit holes & secret doorways
to Narnia?
History books
will never quite capture the essence
of how I can trace a cat’s whisker
in a curvilinear way.
History?
Oral or Oedipus-blinded?
Like a snake’s sloughed skin,
I demand sacrifice.
Instead of Fraud Prevention,
perhaps Freud Prevention?:
For the shallow dreamers.
A girl that I went to Art School with
had an obsession with Heath Ledger
to the point where she said that
she had attempted to stalk him.
“How could I become that desirable?” I said.
“Only if you’re Heath Ledger,” she said.
“My middle name is Heath. Does that count?”
She snickered the way that people snicker
like an energy that overrides passion.
I thought of the agony,
the heartache,
buried beneath her body
when she learned of his death.
The spasms of her explosion
still echoes in spaces, outer-spaces—
our highly individual visions
devoid of human comprehension,
like a man
that chainsaws-off his own foot
after being bitten
by a poisonous snake.
Is that a passionate extreme?
What seems tragic
hints towards the formation of
an understanding on the Theory of Life.
Everyone wants to feel passion,
to feel admired,
the way that your loving cat looks at you,
unstoppable & indisputable,
her eyes leaking fluids, could they be tears,
making me look wet-like from her perspective?
& thus resembling an impression of water?
What are the mechanics of Illusion?
The womb of a ghost?
We will be fencing before long.
You still want to get down to the bottom
of every secret, you say.
Secrets are the only thing worth interrogating,
I think to say, but didn’t.
—Hugo von Hofmannsthal
Best of friends
are like Borromean rings,
tight as Brunnian braids.
In the course of this strange odyssey
that we are embarking on . . .
have I told you how much I miss hearing
about Michael Jackson in the news?
History tells me nothing,
except that my body
could be a wonderland
as my youth slowly vanishes.
I wonder
what feeling
could be if it were
our only source of energy.
Rabbit holes & secret doorways
to Narnia?
History books
will never quite capture the essence
of how I can trace a cat’s whisker
in a curvilinear way.
History?
Oral or Oedipus-blinded?
Like a snake’s sloughed skin,
I demand sacrifice.
Instead of Fraud Prevention,
perhaps Freud Prevention?:
For the shallow dreamers.
A girl that I went to Art School with
had an obsession with Heath Ledger
to the point where she said that
she had attempted to stalk him.
“How could I become that desirable?” I said.
“Only if you’re Heath Ledger,” she said.
“My middle name is Heath. Does that count?”
She snickered the way that people snicker
like an energy that overrides passion.
I thought of the agony,
the heartache,
buried beneath her body
when she learned of his death.
The spasms of her explosion
still echoes in spaces, outer-spaces—
our highly individual visions
devoid of human comprehension,
like a man
that chainsaws-off his own foot
after being bitten
by a poisonous snake.
Is that a passionate extreme?
What seems tragic
hints towards the formation of
an understanding on the Theory of Life.
Everyone wants to feel passion,
to feel admired,
the way that your loving cat looks at you,
unstoppable & indisputable,
her eyes leaking fluids, could they be tears,
making me look wet-like from her perspective?
& thus resembling an impression of water?
What are the mechanics of Illusion?
The womb of a ghost?
We will be fencing before long.
You still want to get down to the bottom
of every secret, you say.
Secrets are the only thing worth interrogating,
I think to say, but didn’t.
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