He couldn’t bear it. He smiled, with those sharp engaging teeth of his. With those devil’s eyes.

He pulled his hands into positions. He crossed through, signing, gesturing with his life scars.

He smelt vaguely adolescent, and there is a scent in there. His nose had a beery vibe.

Sniffing, shivering, his pupils contained the reflection of future flows.

He is, or was, without composite thoughts. His thoughts were unified in their details.

His pimple pricked skin held his youth clawing for – What – I don’t know. I’m just describing,

The details,

That I saw,

In her eyes staring off, distant. Here. Paradoxical.

They, their, eyes contain the tears which on a small jolt would drop, if you like, if you’re, that way inclined. Something like a hurling tear, a tsunami, venomous in its avalanching quality –

He squeezed his fingers together, composed and resolute in their ugliness. Some though, suggested that this was his secret beauty.

Here a hat. Resolute under the weight of its responsibility. To wear it, one must be reasonable enough to be responsible for the world. To feal its fears. To ride its volcanic emanations.

 

I have wanted to write another –

He didn’t understand rock and roll.

No, it’s not even that, he didn’t understand himself.

When will his endings seem like beginnings? And his airy monologues, when will he own the words?

No, it’s not that. He wants to make a world in the dust. Signs and symbols which together promote the imagination to its great sanctuaries, to its highest safeties.

But the great safeties are past the great rushes of water. He emerges soaked in a tear.

There, that’s it. It’s slightly perfect in its wrongness.