Fall back into the same patterns
and then Fall through them like you landed on a paper doily the size of your hurling body
Puncture the lace and severe the fibres
All that is solid melts into air
Still falling, during which
Reset your default
Flip your own switches
Flip the Fuck out
Don’t prepare for landing
Watch yourself crash
Hit the dirt
Nose cheekbone ground squint
And the counter treks to zero
You see an explosion
You don’t hear the sound
Make sure that your guts aren’t bagged by someone else, warm and secure in a plastic bag with disposable chopsticks and plastic spoon included, kept for later consumption until its turned cold by which time you have but innards left for yourself.
Has someone written/can I write about how we are transforming slowly into a text based culture?
Laughter, barely registering in your voice box gets a big “HAHAHA”
Thoughts merely rippled round get the privilege of long ribbons, this one included, reams pulled carelessly from the spool of our brains and pasted into these bright screens we wake up to, sleep to, pine for vibrations from, cure boredom with
In the early days of Western painting, paintings were perceived as windows into other worlds.
Now we have windows that we charge full of battery and full of hope for glimpses of other worlds, and yet it feels like two neighbours in opposite buildings holding up (opaque) screens to each other; everything glimpsed is but an image, or an impression gained through a piece of distorted glass.
Previously man has always had to grapple with the surface nature of beauty. But now, with our mighty screens in place, yet another mighty barrier comes between one and another, yet another filter, yet another muffler.
Was probably the first bad word you ever learnt. Now that we’re twenty and up, it’s used with relish and a hark back to sepia toned days where shit was monumentally transgressive, anti adults and anti good upbringing