The low voices make noises, never stopping for breaths. Straight, scattered tones jar my brains. Almost similar to an opera. Operatic orgasm. Changing from song to song, but yet stays the same. I make a mental note to cut off their allowance, hoping it will cut their habits off too. I see shapes and translate them incorrectly like they could actually be translated. They aren't there. I realize it's my imagination when I am able to compare it with something I am certain is real. Or at least I think it is. My judgement doesn't work in good order like it used to. Or, no, maybe it never used to. Maybe it never has. Something has to be real though. Even I can't associate myself with damn theories such as that is; breathing is't real. That's a theory that helps me to understand. Air cannot be seen. So breathing is not real.

 

        The voices have to run out of songs to sing. The idea of the infinite frightens me also. Things have to stop somewhere. There has to be  endings. A secure price piece has to have it's origins and endings. If that isn't right, then every image given to me is wrong. People stop. Voices must stop.

 

        My elbow hurts. Strange pains haunt me. I have no explanations for them. Occurrences, shutters on the windows, drapes over slight bearers, a bad room faces me. Pliable outer skins rip away with no trouble.

 

        Race tracks sporting eyebrows dry spices in the sun coupling with adobe bricks to sell to the natives. They worship the sun planet. It can do what it wants, they follow. Horsemen don't question the answers given to them by the bright spot in the sky. Pearls are needed, pearls are found. Rain as the demons, a lone piano plays. The voices are still singing. Painted stills canvas a thousand days. Stroking non-colors in my up-sweeps with a brush that won't quit losing its hairs, to be exhibited in an attic-chic museum. A classic to hold. Mouse skates, cueing dictate levers to throw the pieces to the ground, as though to say it is not liked.

‚Äč

        Creep nails pitched their balls into the arena, craze mashed in fabric. I thought it came apart in the air. The little remainders dragged behind continuously supplying new ones to feed to the cats, no one complained. Pillows wound around the pipes give body to the heat. 

RIVER BED   55

copyright © 2017 d.jaffe  - all rights reserved