She was plagued to bleeding by insatiable thoughts of destiny, an avalanche of apathy rattles her intellect, apple scabs rock the charm. A separation sincere, divine - blessed by two destinies. On one side, the submissive sensualist, the picturesque, album cover girl; the art star. And, on the other, the portrait of a Dorian-escent boy, a thin reed of steel, a pale fire, tales of beautified sorrow; the arthritic emotional visage of a well-tested conqueror. How can she decide between these two great loves, when the one most loved lies miles outside both of them. And she stares out across windows worn with pulpy rain, at the saturated landscapes of human movement. And she wonders if her love of her, and her love of she, is strong enough to overpower the hatred she feels for her self. Mmm, I think so, her strength can encompass my insecurity... Eyelids sealed, sweet-tears secretion, a mind bathed in rememberance. Her body, obeisant, fitted to a windowpane prostration. Lips lifted ever so slightly, air and moisture - mental projection. Octave chords and a positive drummer - oxymoron. And I hope she feels me, and the crushing calm beneath the chaos of my schizophrenic piano and its loose tongues. Life, let up a bit. Nothing is real today.
post.script. :: tonite, I hit rock bottom.
"Art is the response of man’s creative soul to the call of the Real.”