Defining terms:
Oscillating
Secular
Pathos
Eros
Logos
Deus ex machina
Truncated
“Do you want to be rich?”
Christ, I had more than this but the internet dropped out and the page reset.
Impermancence strike again.
Do peoples tattoo sleeves look all that different?
No, no I don’t think soo.
And I don’t think your smoking is you in conversation with yourself.
It’s just an accepted way for your to loiter and stare.
To be a voyer.
You should be avoided.
I’m going to run on that thought.
This playlist is so so so sos good.
I’m stuck on so at the moment.
My heart beats, desires, wants and needs.
My thoughts and honesties sputter with rapture and my head is holed.
Hollered, and hated and hacked, humbled and holy, hinging, harmfully, hapless, hogging, hidder, hearted, hagrid.
Put your curls down, with your umbrella, UMBREAL. Umbridge.
Umbral. Cumbarl. Late to the pub again, where I go, I dare not.
For I am not a kiss and tell, your french company, your trials.
Let me disconnect. Stare, think deeply. Fixedly. I’m despondant.
Reactive I am not.
What do I want, let me think think think. Like pooh.
Bah! The poobah, dance, djs, boogie, inform, wish and be filled with nostalgia.
Let me do as I please. Figure that, let me tell you a story, pick away and open up.
Gods.
So thin. How do you do that. Sleep and evaporate.
Become something more, or less and lazier than what I am, what I could be, what I want to be. Let me resent you.
Hate you and your ability. That friendly face, smiling flash talking trash outside my window bullshit.
The window to your soul, which is barren and typecast, shallow and overdone. Makes me ill with reflection and childhoods mystery which is not uncovered to be nothing.
Like a bogus excavation of the truth I find you’re just some dead animal, with autonomy and action. This living death. A shallow grave of exploration, enjoyment, and uncontrolled reactions. You are the product. And people can attribute worth for the fun of it. You are as mysterious as any other function. Bah.
Aye me, there is tragedy there. But the comedy of it all doesn’t allude, illude, miss or confuse me. My great hole. Wholesome mouth, belly laughter rattles and shakes me from my middle to my squishing eyes.
Sexy. Swing. Talking song . Son. Lady, girl, friend. Lets get close, swim in the sheets. Let me bite you. Hear you squeel. Such tenous, tenors and sweet melody. Captivated. Sheets like capes. Ribbons of silk, hands tear and scratch at sheet and skin. Red lustful, raw, and raucus screems. Control lost, emotions swim, heads swoon and eyes roll. Rise and fall. Lips dry, breathing gasps, wretched, spine jutting, grease running as moans of harmony transgress AND permeate from within. The body, the room, the house, and beyond. Their power immutable, fixed and joyful. Bliss.
thecoffeetable 