Let Us Behave, Shan't We
Those who say
that time is money do not think of themselves as of philosophers. Rightly so.
--Yo hourglass cymbalness, / u я the 1 who brings to this world ethereal petals. / u я the 1 who vaporizes
chromos clockface. / u я the 1 who saturates the universe with a cypress
whisper.
--Wow 2 u, mellifluously tongued. Now, gedafuckoutta
here & behave for fuck sake, thou little one!
spent some vacuum-time in space-void. tunnels of
humid heatwaves for breakfast. ozone for dinner. light lunch.
thought i saw u in my fogged eye. thought the dream i’d
thought i‘d had was language. thought yo vision was cloudy, v.
--Now, cut it out & speak the proper
antibabylonian idiosyncrasies, u know, yo cymbalness!
If the center is
central no more, is so the nodal now?
If so, how such
a situation inspires reconfiguring the periphery, one wonders.
Hourglass, like a good servant-carrier of the flow
rolling crystallized shadow fractals, / rolling dissolved fog & molten
clouds.
Hourglass, like an obedient vehicle bringing to the
eyes of the world a reflection.
/
We used to go for long walks during the afternoons
that smelled of a breeze so fresh that no dusky coloring
could rob from it the vigor of lightness. Mostly, our walks would take place by
the river. Its flow was to us like a steady companion whose presence was as
subtle as it was comforting and energizing. We would talk about the way the
crispiness of waves imbued in our eyes sparkles commensurable with the solar
glow. We would talk about the softness of the air absorbing discreet shifts on
the overarching canvassdome. We would
talk about the manner in which it made our heart laugh. We laughed, v.
I guess we chose the river because the night was
falling on it like a caring parent. I guess we chose the river because at night
we could see the indigo cover oiling its indefatigable power to stun : exalted
in the grandeur of rolling & stillness--the perseverance of a quiet
whisper. Like mafotherphunkie bassline.
As the night solidified the fruits of the conquest,
we would continue our walks moving towards the sites where what we thought the
river had told us could be walked and further whispered. We would choose a
high-octane urban interlocutor to walk the river’s urbane message. We used to
talk about the way avenues acquired the smell of the droplets kissing within a
second-long levitation, gently pushed from the wavy surface into a childlike
mischief. We talked about being fond of recognizing the language of the river
in some buildings. We thought that the correlation gifted us with a sense very
much similar to looking at the mirror. Some buildings looked like mirrors to
us. They spoke the message of the river, we’d think. We liked that language.
Because we could walk it. Because those walks drenched our heart with a
whisper. We whispered, v.
I think we chose the vibrant cityscape because it indigo/oiled
our thoughts. Saturated it with the walk of the buildings that talked like
mirrors that would indefatigably persevere in gifting us with a reflection. We
liked it because it was in so many ways similar to how our eyes emanated the
lacy waves’ titillations. We liked it because it gave us the sunspark
epitomizing the vastness of intergalactic pathways. Because they were very much
like the ways the buildings taught us remapping.
As the night was weakening, the fading thickness of
darkness would indicate thinning of the density of the maps, and yet sustaining
the intensity of the robust quiet. As we walked through the disestablishment of
a night ruler, our thoughts were more focused on the very words in which we
told each other about mirror-river-building messages. The walk infested with
rascalness of dawn was always an unmistakable signal that the continuation of
our stories would take place in the coziness of a room. Comfort of numberless
cushions, balmy walls, friendly plants, a shy ray leaking into the space amidst
which we found ourselves talking about the way we spend our days and nights.
i used to like those talks. i liked them a lot. because
they taught me about the language they were told in. because they were told in
the language i can understand and speak. and so can u.
/
--Inkflow
infused in yo skin floods your being midnight blue.
--Bullshit.
--So
colored, yo epithelium breathes oneiric inkclouds into the thirsty alveoli of
the universe.
--Gimme
a/one break.
--Only
the color of yo ethereal flooding can devacuumize the reforgotten corners of
distant galaxies so entrenched in the torpor of invisibility that they are
becoming undetectable even to themselves.
--Gettafuckouttahere.
--Pulverized
stardust disappearing into nanopaths of its regenerative core refracts
midnightink rays : by re-focusing it distracts not.
--Shudafuckup.
--Did
you once say something?
--
/
--Yo
ma guy.
-- /
Soft autumnal nights in a stark contrast with the
days during which streets seem to be absent from the light that showers them.
Through the former, the summer speaks. Through the latter doesn’t speak
anything.
In the onset of the day is a memory of the night.
Pastel chromoscape, dissolving an impenetrable ink empire, preserves
reminiscences of the density of moonshine / oiling. Deserted playgrounds,
drenched in a silverspark coating, are but an invocation of the games played
there when the moon exhausts its emanating power. Abandoned streets passing by,
as the journey is heading towards cushion-whispered stories and gentle echoes
of the sound from the copious collection of carefully selected records : once
listened to and now epitomized in raindrops shyly sprinkling slumberous
sunrise.
***
It seems that one had too much intergalactic milk
from unsmoked books, ha!
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