Sunday, January 2, 2011

:)

I was waiting for you to call when I noticed it!
I'm feeling dead again! And on the mezzanine
that falls between the L and the M,

there was this young couple
and they were makin out.
Y'ask me, they could've looked a little harder
and found themselves a room.
Well, it's September.
It's time to start packing away those things.

Here's the smile that I'll
impress upon my face.
And here's the empty cup
I'll take and I'll call half-full.

We resort to relying upon automata
when we cannot rely on other people.
We rely on other people when we
cannot rely upon ourselves.
And here's the commodification of religion!
And here's the commodification of death!

Jesus Jesus Christ--when did
Weird Weird Chess
become a machine?

And all these cold and sterile electronic records standing in for present warm wet love--
The vagueness I can't get rid of--
I want to but I still can't force myself to want it badly enough--

1 comment:

  1. The Sore Throat (--Aaron Kunin)

    I’m inventing a machine
    for concealing my desire.
    And I’m inventing another
    machine for concealing the
    machine. It’s a two-machine
    system, and it sounded like
    laughter. And I’m inventing
    a machine for concealing
    the sound. You, to me: “Why are
    you concealing the beauty
    of your machine?” Every machine
    has more beauty than the last,
    for everything whose purpose
    is to conceal seems to change,
    in the end, into a sign
    of what it’s concealing. And
    now the sound that once sounded
    like laughter is so loud that
    it seems more like sobbing or
    laughter concealing sobbing.
    All my inventing is a
    complete disaster. It’s not
    concealing my desire, it’s
    talking about my desire
    to conceal my desire, like
    a voice on a message machine
    that would say: “Hello. About
    desire, I’d like to say a
    word or two. It’s not your eyes,
    it’s not the word you say, it’s
    not your complaining voice that
    I desire. All I desire
    is your applause.” It’s hard not
    to hear what the message is
    saying, also it’s hard to
    keep myself from inventing
    another machine to keep
    from hearing it. So invent
    a machine for disinventing.
    This will be the last machine
    I ever invent, and its
    purpose will just be to change
    every machine into shit.
    No more inventing (for me).
    —What a shame. It once was a
    wonder of a machine; now
    it’s more like a disaster.
    —I think he left a message . . .
    —You’re wrong: he just left a mess.

    ReplyDelete