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I Am Not the Marrying Kind
From the stone pile in my mother’s backyard, I do not ask forgiveness. Might imply regret. Starlings perch atop the fence and sit silent, learning.
The marriage contract binds, finite nonetheless, it builds conditions, voidable and proletarian, legal Legos for love. But the scaffolding round the temple trembles and weaves. Windless day, and you have vertigo and vision sparkles.
I prefer to feel boundless, even if gravity thwarts and the all-enders of bullets, bombs and cancer yet lurk like thieves at the curb in a blue Cutlass in clear daylight, which is another kind of wedding, with flexible rules.
Every man has a mother and often makes a dirge of her. Every man wants a son but worries his daughters. I refuse to sing it. Some songs are made not of notes just tones. Imagine Mondrian as a composer.
Imagine Picasso is your priest, sketching your vows on parchment and smearing them with his cock. A three dimensional assault with second amendment context. Sex is rarely without politics. Adam’s cock. Eve’s blood. Picasso priest paints a backsideways eye as a flat triangle and babies fall forth.
From atop the years piled by birthdays I do not sing of leaves or love. I am not the marrying kind. The regret of compromise or the guilt of what if with whom or the cold look of an undone love across a conference table, under halogen glare muting bad suits and worse moods. Where the only thing to throw in rage is the past.
Resonant Voices (Yet Again)
I’ve lately been mesmerized by Frank Ocean.
I won’t bore with his back story. His Wikipedia biography is quite detailed. His lack of widespread recognition has my resonant voices theory derailed.
I find the tones of his voice, and the way he delivers the melody through the lyrics, strangely hypnotic. The laconic element in the lower part of his range almost induces a trance where you just unravel into the song.
Yet also flowing under is a familiarity. His voice reminds me of an older one, a previous one, perhaps several. Yet hours of searching, scouring, ripping through the internet, through YouTube and Soundcloud and places less…certain. The influences carried in his work are easy to spot, but his voice.
Hmph. I suppose there have been other resonant voices that toiled/performed/wafted through obscurity. For what is a unique voice without a good song?
Reading Friedman And
Are you an agent of creative destruction? Will your economic force burrow up, burst through and raze the 1% like Hollywood aliens in their CGI saucers? They should suffer more, not for their success but for their knowing and culpability, children who knew the ice would break.
Is your captial a shower or a grower? You must be hung either or, because the failure requires the finale fuck with higher ratings than a Super Bowl. Do your push ups. Flex your guns. Clench well below. Leverage your talent pool against any stalling and pray that China eats its own.
Do you have what it takes? Guns may be involved. Revolution is always phallic. It’s why men are unnerved when women get the trigger. Their blood remains evenly distributed, their thoughts of normal girth.
