"Romantic" mean nothing. It's the pettiness and lies that are overcrowding and that we ignore, from one side to another. Romantic as a torch, romantic as a grenade on which is written "For Ever", or "4 Ever", as inlaid hearts on sleeves shells. Romantic like a Tweety tattooed on the crumpled skin of balls. Like a perfume, scents of bullshit flowers, like the shit poem written after drinking the very first beer. Like whores candles rotten, while we should desire with the flame of a furnace. Romantic as a drunk star who "want to fuck you".
I have not finished with me ! I have no more desire, no more envy, no more willingness of nothing, unwilling to have any envy of desire. I'm not really. It should be a matter of gland, thyroid glands rotten disturbed, too soaked with this and that, too dry, atrophied. I cheat by usual, just a matter of education. Pavlovian seduction, and sometimes I wonder if we are not all rendered at this point. Instincts, here and there. And large cardboard structures all around, movie sets that we walk like pathetic burdens to live the most beautiful missed sex story. One day you realize that the package-decoration is shredded, and that we put nothing more than our dirty socks, infinitely and by the wrong holes yet. The socks are like love, their meshes expand over time.
There are those who miss you until it rip your soul. Those that prevent you saying it is basically nothing, borked illusions, lies missed or poorly made. A wrong dose of testosterone. We never really get how or why. I am a lost princess. She went away with my sex, and I cry in her room of nice sleeping-beauty-wolf-are-you-there. My raped princess dress, it is a book by Queneau that bears her name. I want to be pathetic, just for me. To reassure me about my condition. Provided that there is something to reassure. I'm a bit ashamed to cry out this mud-tears, mud stinking of man with dried glands, mud thick like my poor head of badly broken pin-up. I aged quickly to get back the time lost. Fuck all my life's VHS tape in a dusty VCR. Burning the reminders, must be soaked in oil-vodka. This damned shit don't wanna dry. Wet reminders for dry glands.
I must not realize, fuck it, must not realize that she exists, or not, that she breathe and still think somewhere, she thinks of all these things I can't even understand. I'm a faker, this race caress between my teeth, it's my stigma of mine. It's the cocaine turned in a compact insoluble illusions, nor in time or in alcohol or in the "what a bitch". It erodes your molars, a square in desires, when it will finish with my enamel, I will make myself a great parody of desires with lead. And the more I complain, the more I find it all so pathetic.
I have not finished with me ! I have no more desire, no more envy, no more willingness of nothing, unwilling to have any envy of desire. I'm not really. It should be a matter of gland, thyroid glands rotten disturbed, too soaked with this and that, too dry, atrophied. I cheat by usual, just a matter of education. Pavlovian seduction, and sometimes I wonder if we are not all rendered at this point. Instincts, here and there. And large cardboard structures all around, movie sets that we walk like pathetic burdens to live the most beautiful missed sex story. One day you realize that the package-decoration is shredded, and that we put nothing more than our dirty socks, infinitely and by the wrong holes yet. The socks are like love, their meshes expand over time.
There are those who miss you until it rip your soul. Those that prevent you saying it is basically nothing, borked illusions, lies missed or poorly made. A wrong dose of testosterone. We never really get how or why. I am a lost princess. She went away with my sex, and I cry in her room of nice sleeping-beauty-wolf-are-you-there. My raped princess dress, it is a book by Queneau that bears her name. I want to be pathetic, just for me. To reassure me about my condition. Provided that there is something to reassure. I'm a bit ashamed to cry out this mud-tears, mud stinking of man with dried glands, mud thick like my poor head of badly broken pin-up. I aged quickly to get back the time lost. Fuck all my life's VHS tape in a dusty VCR. Burning the reminders, must be soaked in oil-vodka. This damned shit don't wanna dry. Wet reminders for dry glands.
I must not realize, fuck it, must not realize that she exists, or not, that she breathe and still think somewhere, she thinks of all these things I can't even understand. I'm a faker, this race caress between my teeth, it's my stigma of mine. It's the cocaine turned in a compact insoluble illusions, nor in time or in alcohol or in the "what a bitch". It erodes your molars, a square in desires, when it will finish with my enamel, I will make myself a great parody of desires with lead. And the more I complain, the more I find it all so pathetic.
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