Natural bodies technically do not ask for forgiveness. They demand nothing but a series of replenishments. If you deny me sorrow, I will deny you joy; raise our tweaked, tawdry pennon elsewhere but between our distinctive beliefs. Partition! Take shelter, take shelter– in our grand quiet while I run my hands through the grass then through a soul. Do not disturb the foul at any cost. Perhaps my admiration shall recoil. We do not do confessions when we’re hatching in the dark. Believe me, I’ll sing you praises when you finally break my heart.
On Areas and Ideas of Self-Preservation
The narrow-minded are always so horny for purity! How utterly disgusting! What wastes of life– never having known the truths in pleasure, only the allure of it… They are afraid of the theoretical things that will happen after death, they forget that there is only the living.
I guess I have to be at peace with the purification of the self through action, but that does not mean I can tolerate the foibles easier. It just means it now presents itself easier– the handling of the daunting fears that take up so much space that they prevent you from accomplishing anything else. No thought is free. All words and flinches are allocated. If I could lie, as lie to myself I had always decided, it is that I would present my ego as that without a single scar– that I am modest; that I am tame; that I am generous and grounded and that I do not, with choice, relate exclusively to useless works of art.
I swear to you that the fruits of my work will always be gliding. They will never truly impact the heads and hearts of those I intend them to be with. In that sense, I do spare them… This is how I elect myself a saint of no pleasure and all pleasures. This is how I was not built, but have built myself. I am all feelings and no dignity. I am all pose, simply existing for the unrefined plows and presses of self-scrutiny. How convincingly easy it is for the artist to pretend that they had known not delight when they are then dragged to the sun. But, then, isn’t that true for everybody?
On Promises and Mutable Darlings
I do miss the congregation of the bees. (They are now flatlining.) They were modest, honest, so well-put in a place where Love blossomed in an extended manner that have yet to learn of cowardice. They housed diversions from originators, progenitors of expositions. They stocked piledrivers, over-distillations, opera, housework, tidiness, dutifulness, chaos, sheet-music. They snubbed, directly, the sight of the scythe. They offered words without loyalty to those who spoke; only intent of clearing out and making out who were in front of them. It were refreshing, to be dominated so clearly after swearing never to be diminished and demolished as the last year’s victorious run where all my bodies piled under the liquid grave of Love’s first real injustice. I graduated from loving an older stranger who have not become a master of his tongue, only to fall into the arms of a clumsy coward who would throw at me their desires of conflicted asceticism; as if their soul were pustulent, their tongue exhibiting the same. It were a symptom of the soul, therefore a symptom of the tongue, same. My words are as shrill as your unabridged divinity; shrill as you are.