You are not a real person. I will tell you why: drugs slip
through your fingers like siphoned gasoline when nothing explodes. The evidence
is in truck stops. Meat markets. Street corners. Between your paint splattered legs.
You never wash your hands. ((I hope everything explodes.))
Beauty in gasoline puddle rainbow.
You drink people until the ice melts (carbonation lost). You
drink people until they begin to naturally ferment. Sweet smelling bruises on
sweet smelling fruits. You drink people under the table. You drink people with
three quick shots of whisky and Lucky Charms. You aren’t an alcoholic
until you’re doing cocaine. You drank my emotions with a bendy straw.
Your limbs betray you in dangerous ways. I dreamt of holding
your head, clean&bloodless, and you spoke to me but I couldn’t look into
your eyes. Your body speaks in jolting twitches and graceful spasms, and your
voice says nothing like the way you hold your head at an angle. I don’t know
how to hold your head – not under my arm, against my body. I don’t want to hold
this for you.
You are analog. You are lo-fi. You are clockwork. You are
beta. You are a television script handwritten from a photocopy
of a mimeograph copy someone translated from a garbled German cassette tape
left in a hot car.
Haplography at line 352, and there are
numerous erasures and corrections within the text.
If you existed I would never get out of
Love is influence in movie theaters. Mexico
is cheaper than dying – someplace past the bordertown. I will go nowhere with
you, the cops always come. Jaywalking is a crime.
My arm reads, “burn, burn, burn like
fabulous yellow roman candles exploding like spiders across the stars and in
the middle you see the blue centerlight pop and everybody goes ‘Awww!’” and the
man told me about burnouts. People shine bright and burn out
glorious/momentary. I should stop watching fireworks.
We have nothing but life to lose.
The video cuts out here; nothing more can
be determined from the tape.