Horton-Scorton
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Apr 29, 2008
- Messages
- 110
1. There's a pastoral stretch that doesn't persist; soon it is eaten by industry and Norfolk city. Dead fish float, in bubbles, just by the mass, some manmade water hole- then, sometimes, unidentifiable specimens- monsters- disturb the flowery mind that one picks up at the gift shoppe. Even the white flowers in this park are ridden with strange insects; in fact, they almost ate her up.
We discovered a swingset and yelled out beyond our shoulderblades and right along the backwash trail...wooden benches...I believe, after a mutual gaze and a kiss, we spoke about Syd Barrett. She climbed a particularly exotic tree and I photographed her. She looked like a locust.
2. The other day- and it was a stretched day- I came across a blunt and ugly field. Sidewalks, grayed, hacked it middle right through. Deadening grass and swift formless clouds looking down careless but on foot, like jetlags on a mover's path. I stopped because time was dragging the day and I saw a group of girls. I liked one of their haircuts. She also had fun glasses and bad teeth, but all in a fitting color; her black dance dress agreed. I did not expect my functions to react so chaotically, though this should be predictable, a heart or a heap of bone to all men. The organ's duty is established hard.
They were dancing about with circles, orange big and small. A speaker poking its life from soil chattered musics across the green. I sat on their carpet and observing the racecar clouds laughed, which aroused interest in the lonesome female with blue-gray eyes and her very living simple energy. I could tell her body and mind were connected in a way I cannot say mine are or have ever been. I felt a connection and a gap, a real tangible touchable physical gap, occurring at once and even fingers latched upon each other. Mouths laughing at the hotel of time conspire.
Where are my things? You could have passed for the Truth...you looked just like the Truth.
3. Film me, she says. I'm no good with a camera, that's the only problem. Paintstrokes or sketches, sure. Banging the drums or strumming an acoustic? Sure. But I'm not the man for photographs, and I tell her as much.
'I've never met a woman so aware, so photogenic.' In between puffs of smoke, glass after bloodstain glass and paternal fireplace lulling the whole of us.
Richmond, Va. and the climate is as - modest? - as imperceptible and as un-tilted as air and sky get. Richmond, yes, and it's a visit for me; it's a visit to a damned heavy city, filled with aged haunted buildings themselves filled with rooms of skullart and dusty piled vinyl. Filled up like a swollen wretched asylum; here come the violent crack vultures and artlessly made up students shoveled in civil war towers brushing neck to neck. Screeching preachers hungry for show and noise kids roam finding new and uglier plants. Tears are easy to come by in this city; I swear, it is diseased. I am often invited. For it is diseased.
Film me. Take photographs of me. I don't own a camera myself, so I use hers.
She gives me directions. I also direct her. We test about. Try different stoops, different alleys, and it's the strangest time of day right here. Uncertainty is a halfmoon. The goddess begs with legs caught in smoky barbed wires. Nuit wrangled in a tub of burnt rubber and cracked brick.
Predictably, the girl doesn't like my photography. And is it really my lot to take care of an assembly of greaseballs all escaping their dens to patrol and petition for her glowing foxy ass, all while I'm busy shoving powder anyway and, yes, listener, I do care, I care in my way. I try out a whip upon the stones as I drink a warm beer, growing sad on a rotten green patio.
Saturn has written. She has given me a letter and it reads:
'This my dear, what red and black a scene, has passed you by. It is done. You have gone day by day, and many days in line, and you are with, not the rags and boggy junks and the squalor and downtown's gallery by night- the 45th or 24th st. fishhooked droolers, but you drink with the pharaohs and the River's Returning Raft. You have earned a garden where you can see now the acres you have yet to seduce, those fields of home in the golden distances, a sprawl of love and a ladder you must build bit by bit.'
I have given you what is- fuck the actor- bruise the actor into coffins chuckling and conspiring to be.
We discovered a swingset and yelled out beyond our shoulderblades and right along the backwash trail...wooden benches...I believe, after a mutual gaze and a kiss, we spoke about Syd Barrett. She climbed a particularly exotic tree and I photographed her. She looked like a locust.
2. The other day- and it was a stretched day- I came across a blunt and ugly field. Sidewalks, grayed, hacked it middle right through. Deadening grass and swift formless clouds looking down careless but on foot, like jetlags on a mover's path. I stopped because time was dragging the day and I saw a group of girls. I liked one of their haircuts. She also had fun glasses and bad teeth, but all in a fitting color; her black dance dress agreed. I did not expect my functions to react so chaotically, though this should be predictable, a heart or a heap of bone to all men. The organ's duty is established hard.
They were dancing about with circles, orange big and small. A speaker poking its life from soil chattered musics across the green. I sat on their carpet and observing the racecar clouds laughed, which aroused interest in the lonesome female with blue-gray eyes and her very living simple energy. I could tell her body and mind were connected in a way I cannot say mine are or have ever been. I felt a connection and a gap, a real tangible touchable physical gap, occurring at once and even fingers latched upon each other. Mouths laughing at the hotel of time conspire.
Where are my things? You could have passed for the Truth...you looked just like the Truth.
3. Film me, she says. I'm no good with a camera, that's the only problem. Paintstrokes or sketches, sure. Banging the drums or strumming an acoustic? Sure. But I'm not the man for photographs, and I tell her as much.
'I've never met a woman so aware, so photogenic.' In between puffs of smoke, glass after bloodstain glass and paternal fireplace lulling the whole of us.
Richmond, Va. and the climate is as - modest? - as imperceptible and as un-tilted as air and sky get. Richmond, yes, and it's a visit for me; it's a visit to a damned heavy city, filled with aged haunted buildings themselves filled with rooms of skullart and dusty piled vinyl. Filled up like a swollen wretched asylum; here come the violent crack vultures and artlessly made up students shoveled in civil war towers brushing neck to neck. Screeching preachers hungry for show and noise kids roam finding new and uglier plants. Tears are easy to come by in this city; I swear, it is diseased. I am often invited. For it is diseased.
Film me. Take photographs of me. I don't own a camera myself, so I use hers.
She gives me directions. I also direct her. We test about. Try different stoops, different alleys, and it's the strangest time of day right here. Uncertainty is a halfmoon. The goddess begs with legs caught in smoky barbed wires. Nuit wrangled in a tub of burnt rubber and cracked brick.
Predictably, the girl doesn't like my photography. And is it really my lot to take care of an assembly of greaseballs all escaping their dens to patrol and petition for her glowing foxy ass, all while I'm busy shoving powder anyway and, yes, listener, I do care, I care in my way. I try out a whip upon the stones as I drink a warm beer, growing sad on a rotten green patio.
Saturn has written. She has given me a letter and it reads:
'This my dear, what red and black a scene, has passed you by. It is done. You have gone day by day, and many days in line, and you are with, not the rags and boggy junks and the squalor and downtown's gallery by night- the 45th or 24th st. fishhooked droolers, but you drink with the pharaohs and the River's Returning Raft. You have earned a garden where you can see now the acres you have yet to seduce, those fields of home in the golden distances, a sprawl of love and a ladder you must build bit by bit.'
I have given you what is- fuck the actor- bruise the actor into coffins chuckling and conspiring to be.