12-10-2017, 10:21 AM
The Flea Market
(fluctisonant)
I'm not scared of heights, not really…
but I have an irrational fear of depth.
[Johnny No. 2]
The long chemical bulb flickers and traces thin bodies, profiles of movements, with light traits left in the dark. And junkies look cool, no matter what they say. All style and no substance: tight skin hugging the bones and tight clothes hugging the skin hugging the bones.
Smack heads and crack heads and drunks all quivering and twitching and slipping and sliding.
There is no depth here, none of us even try to pretend there is.
We all stick out like splinters and nothing goes in, not even the needle. It all punches out. Each twitch, each movement, punches out—but never gets out. Everything happens against the surface. Bodies are like shapes pushed out of stretched rubber; voices, words, and language are the same, just pushing out; love, hate, indifference, thought, not-thought, real, not-real, all come to pass on this slippery surface.
—But what of the orgasms?
they ask.
—What of the bone chiseling pain?
Skin deep, skin deep, tra-la-la!
If there are things lurking beneath the surface; what are they to us, anyhow?
The pain is not under the skin but over it, vibrating across it! In this light, pain is only a remote reflex of wills.
The long chemical light flickers, and no one is real under these conditions—not real-life real at any rate. We are dream real: partially all there but totally fragmented.
(The sea is as green as the morning blue.
I smell that salty air and I'm a child again…
I can hear the pebbles rattling under the waves lapping around a small boat rocking.)
(fluctisonant)
I'm not scared of heights, not really…
but I have an irrational fear of depth.
[Johnny No. 2]
The long chemical bulb flickers and traces thin bodies, profiles of movements, with light traits left in the dark. And junkies look cool, no matter what they say. All style and no substance: tight skin hugging the bones and tight clothes hugging the skin hugging the bones.
Smack heads and crack heads and drunks all quivering and twitching and slipping and sliding.
There is no depth here, none of us even try to pretend there is.
We all stick out like splinters and nothing goes in, not even the needle. It all punches out. Each twitch, each movement, punches out—but never gets out. Everything happens against the surface. Bodies are like shapes pushed out of stretched rubber; voices, words, and language are the same, just pushing out; love, hate, indifference, thought, not-thought, real, not-real, all come to pass on this slippery surface.
—But what of the orgasms?
they ask.
—What of the bone chiseling pain?
Skin deep, skin deep, tra-la-la!
If there are things lurking beneath the surface; what are they to us, anyhow?
The pain is not under the skin but over it, vibrating across it! In this light, pain is only a remote reflex of wills.
The long chemical light flickers, and no one is real under these conditions—not real-life real at any rate. We are dream real: partially all there but totally fragmented.
(The sea is as green as the morning blue.
I smell that salty air and I'm a child again…
I can hear the pebbles rattling under the waves lapping around a small boat rocking.)
