What whatshisname says.

(Continued from a post on the Blog : Signs)

Sleep deprivation aside, you know you’re in trouble as an artist
when you crash through an issue of National Geographic
reduced by heartfelt sobs. Jesus! When you’re raw,
almost everything candids frustration from turmoil inside.
The dyke carload parked at Lexington street
swarmed into the safe haven tavern where
the women harass the men in a matriarchal
reverse power struggle; I turn the pages, squinting over my
double whiskey conveniently provided
by the which-way cross dresser.

The apostrophe is the rhetorical addressing of an absent person, or personified thing. The ‘concrete’ is the shape of whatever’s discussed in the art form. Assonance is the repetition of vowels as alliterative to rhyme in verse. Stalwart stanchions of consonants and vowels whirl to concordance, confusing the ear assuming language isn’t interested in its own sound. Ah; the dangers of being smashed to pieces in the world are profound.

What do you need right now to be happy? What do you lack?

As if I wasted the life the dream foretold, I threw a fairy tale away, in search of something greater, as the life elapsing met the life lived, at a precarious staging ground. What is it you want? Security and good fortune? Or an idea of it, at what cost? What is foregone, and contiguous to envy, which breeds desire? If crying at a cheesy ad, about saving the world, signified something wrong, what would it be? You’re feeling something. My friend who I was in a brief, lesbian montage-a-twat with is rising from the table as I come in, depression seeping from her pores. What’s wrong? I have to go to work. I’m so exhausted, I can hardly parse the space between her mumbled worlds. Uh huh. Sorry to hear it. Yea. She slanders herself, as if I didn’t exist. More suffering makes us better beings, or so the Dali whatshisname says. Her suffering is the maintenance of security; a paycheck streaking in, though spotty, and infrequent, a schedule, though shaky, and women who want her. "My suffering is completely different." The satiety of the perception is the same breath, with different words. She rises to enter the rut she takes with conscious resignation; I heavily find the chair which deploys my state of stuckness; and together we see-saw our shared fulcrum dull bemoaning our self-imposed fates. It seems socially relevant to say this; no matter what era of history we inhabit the cause and effect [of the game] lead to each other, professing the great, and the base of the human condition in a single
penetrating glance.