[continued from previous message]   
      
   >> I hear something said of you,   
   >> and I am immediately attracted,   
   >> yet everywhere I go,   
   >> being there is always about something and someone else,   
   >> nothing really attractive,   
   >> in the usual waltzing of formal greetings,   
   >> and the careful avoidance of most subjects,   
   >> including anything much of what would turn me on to you.   
   >> The rumour seems only there to stimulate my desires for you,   
   >> yet there is never anyone with any resemblance   
   >> to any rumour of you anywhere near enough.   
   >> They toss a few scraps of something of you,   
   >> through the cage of my being held wherever I am,   
   >> in my place and time,   
   >> my being a kind of victim of various circumstances,   
   >> none of which I chose,   
   >> and never saying where you are,   
   >> those who come and go being only other prisoners with different desires,   
   >> not sharing our bad luck,   
   >> and not really wanting you,   
   >> while they distribute the disconnected rumours of you   
   >> that fall from their lips in automatic whispers.   
   >>   
   >> ----------------------   
   >>   
   >> Explosion   
   >> ---------   
   >>   
   >> The decay of hours,   
   >> and the speed of light slowly breaking down,   
   >> a broken column,   
   >> into infectious fear,   
   >> gathering crowded coughed out from doorways into wide chasms of street,   
   >> smiles festering with unspoken discontent,   
   >> a spent wind,   
   >> and we try to break loose and run madly,   
   >> away into the night,   
   >> our pulled threads straining together,   
   >> across the social fabric,   
   >> leaping from dream to dream,   
   >> splitting the unbearable predictable patterns wide open,   
   >> rummaging inside,   
   >> spilling their colours,   
   >> auguries spent into shades of regrets gone wild,   
   >> among those futures thrown overturned into abandon,   
   >> and our attempting to recover something romantic and intimate   
   >> from in between the politic of debris.   
   >>   
   >> ----------------------   
   >>   
   >> Undertakings   
   >> ------------   
   >>   
   >> We ferry the personally dead,   
   >> into morning,   
   >> crossing the edge of the river of sleep,   
   >> moving on,   
   >> to new undertakings,   
   >> various ceremonies more perfectly performed in impersonal ways,   
   >> taking them onto checkout lines,   
   >> ticket lines,   
   >> and other statistics,   
   >> including word counts,   
   >> making bank statements,   
   >> giving account,   
   >> in between greeting cards,   
   >> entering into various assurances of belonging,   
   >> wherever we can be certain that we don't know anyone,   
   >> and everyone there is considered a friend.   
   >>   
   >> ----------------------- November 5th, 2002   
   >>   
   >> Tied   
   >> ----   
   >>   
   >> Forests of green twine tangled up in August,   
   >> tatters of loose leaf,   
   >> trailing to abrupt ends that we try to reconnect   
   >> tied across uncertain valleys,   
   >> from a dangle of limbs,   
   >> taking tumbles of emotion into tinder dry branches   
   >> beside tufts of marshland,   
   >> a melancholic hypnosis of sword edged cattails   
   >> waving legions in formation along watery eyes borders   
   >> where the white sun dives as a golden liquid splash   
   >> onto murky cool browns being uttered from a riverlet   
   >> of urgent discontent.   
   >>   
   >> ---------------------   
   >>   
   >> Wounded Impulse   
   >> ---------------   
   >>   
   >> A sharp pain,   
   >> drumming at the skin,   
   >> puncturing the numbness of that day,   
   >> all done in half on purpose,   
   >> the wounded impulse stopping short   
   >> at a self inflicted gash across a deadened psyche   
   >> forming the startled trickle of red brown oxidation,   
   >> and watched entranced,   
   >> feeling a warm sting of blood flow from the wounded finger,   
   >> playing in it,   
   >> for a while,   
   >> tonguing the edge as if it were honey,   
   >> or the bitter stainless edge of a moment of decision,   
   >> across another membrane sack of dreams pierced   
   >> in a same silence makes fidget in tedious time,   
   >> being all taken as flashbacks to those words,   
   >> bled now almost a soothing,   
   >> Thickening,   
   >> imagined sweet as strawberry touched to starved lips,   
   >> hungering for another kiss that never came.   
   >>   
   >> ----------------   
   >>   
   >> Waiting Is Dangerous   
   >> --------------------   
   >>   
   >> Waiting is dangerous,   
   >> and you knew that,   
   >> when you made me wait,   
   >> crouched down,   
   >> holding ground,   
   >> forced to think about what might come in between us,   
   >> as I remained waiting motionless and quiet,   
   >> among that jungle of everyone else's desires.   
   >>   
   >> Waiting is dangerous,   
   >> and you knew that,   
   >> when you made me wait,   
   >> until I was bitten by a staccato of things   
   >> that I could not see,   
   >> the way spiders bite paralysing a segment of victim flesh,   
   >> and as mosquitoes insert a sucking poison invisibly under the skin.   
   >>   
   >> Waiting is dangerous,   
   >> and you knew that,   
   >> when you made me wait,   
   >> until I sickened,   
   >> feverish and chilled losing the way,   
   >> in the thick of delusions that implied you were coming   
   >> at long last to see me,   
   >> and again I waited   
   >> feeling the bite of time and the sting of place.   
   >>   
   >> Waiting is dangerous,   
   >> and you knew that,   
   >> when you made me wait,   
   >> until the last belief was broken down,   
   >> ground away past bare bones,   
   >> gnawed slowly and crushed helplessly   
   >> Seized in the jaws of predators,   
   >> a gleam of you and them,   
   >> having left me nearly alive,again.   
   >>   
   >> -------------------- August 6th, 2002   
   >>   
   >> Clouded   
   >> -------   
   >>   
   >> Your clouded brow the only signal in the painted out sky,   
   >> now clad in muted blues and scarce whispering   
   >> trembles of breath brushed across a few thin reeds,   
   >> past the faded green,   
   >> those bodies stretched out along a forever of rusted roadside.   
   >>   
   >> Something pushed at me and I rolled over the way a stone rolls over   
   >> in a reluctant groan,   
   >> kicked at and bruised,   
   >> tumbling out of bed into gravity:   
   >> the disastrous pull carrying everything along,   
   >> from our impossible journey towards another that is even less probable.   
   >>   
   >> You have me reaching,   
   >> under the hem of night fall groping for a way around in the dark,   
   >> cutting my fingers on slivers of broken sunlight   
   >> where the gleam in our eyes shattered and was swept away under the rug,   
   >> among more dangerous artifacts such as love letters   
   >> and imagined kisses.   
   >>   
   >> -------------------- August 7th, 2002   
   >>   
   >> Nik And Morpheal   
   >>   
   >> Iron spike into an orange, a coined phrase vending machine   
   >> pulls out all the seeds.Instant push button chemistry.   
   >> No more trees. Intravenously fed synthetic sap.   
   >> And I will build a railroad into tunnels of raw pulp fiction flesh   
   >> where no trains will run. Following ghosts of steam whistle breaths   
   >> I will walk the tracks,along a million addicts limbs   
   >> forth and back seeking a desperate disinterest,   
   >> because I killed all who were craving anything,   
   >> and the orange trees,incinerating each stray leaf.   
   >> Like you, Andrew, I punish me,flagellating my own sex,   
   >> for sins not known,striving to become a mortification   
   >> for crimes unconvicted,as to all the laws not yet written,   
   >> for the silence of give us our daily anaesthesia,   
   >> and her, rattling around, as technical connections.   
   >> We construct our own cages weaving the walls from routines,   
   >> and then sit in them, punishing our imginations,   
   >> looking out the open door. No where different left to go   
   >> I am a criminal, I wiped out for the sake of intellectual arguments,   
   >> all the trees exchanging wooden limbs for plastic,   
   >> with my sexually transmitted need to comply   
   >> with unease,and to keep moving on, uprooted.   
   >>   
   >> --------------------------------------------   
   >>   
   >> Subject: Re: lost it - Interpolated   
   >> Date: Mon, 08 Jul 2002   
   >>   
   >> * * wrote:   
   >> in its own dust   
   >>   
   >> no control   
   >> puppet on wild strings   
      
   [continued in next message]   
      
   --- SoupGate-DOS v1.05   
    * Origin: you cannot sedate... all the things you hate (1:229/2)