Tuesday, November 27, 2007

property is theft

be it of the body, mind or soul.

I hate how I need.
Among other things, I do enjoy music, I remember the two months I spent without a walkman. Songs kept playing through my mind, I was singing out loud.

Anne-Sophie said I had a nice singing voice, as far as I know she died, couldn't kick the heroin. I remember how tightly I held her that night, like I could heal her, like I didn't just want to have sex. But I did, want to heal, and feel close to. We smoked hash and drank wine in an abandoned shelter off the beaten path. We played cards and the tree in the quadrangle was loaded with birds.

Overweight and alone, I watch rabbits in the park.

They are just animals, there was something magic to them before.

I've been staring off into space at work, and making small talk. I wish I was dancing in a really dark room to some crazy bass electronic music. Repetitive beats, walking out at sunrise, sweat freezing to my arm. It's -19 degrees in the morning now.

I wrote a poem for a zine to do drawings with, I need to perform, I'm drawing myself, a semblance.

I fall asleep
I'm in a clearing
I'm on a cliff
I'm disappearing.

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