prose pieces
three quick ones
Oh no, a quirked up criticism
Bro was trying to goof his way into some pussy. But his type seeks an abuser over a Pierrot. He’s soft as ice cream, though a tad coarser, fancies himself the tough type. And thus, when pissed and swinging at the sky in tear-streaked clown makeup, the fist turned heat-seeking attentions towards contemporaries entirely beyond this approval realm he was trapped in. They glanced his way: “Don’t step into the back room. You’re out of your depth.”
Of course, you can’t tell a man anything, especially not one possessed of a Napoleonic complex… He sat in. After several silent minutes observing our discourse, he chimed in with an idiotic, irrelevant statement. We gave a collective fluoride stare, turned back to one another, continued on. His next contribution was something deeply obvious, enough so that I smirked into his eyes and gave a slow clap. The others joined in.
Furious, he left quick as he came, ripped off and emotional, spitting belligerent admissions of idiocy; minimal comprehension. “Their riddles bring nothing, and have as much life as textbooks. I can’t make a heads or a tails of them!! They leave me with nothing!! Make me FEEL something!!”
Interpretation is not the instant pleasure one hopes in scenehopping or scenestering. Fitting in should be the least of one’s concerns.
Quite bogged down
Incessant degeneracy or so called. I read it back and felt confused by the motives of a past self. But that was really just a top coat of repression. Clear as day, any ambiguity. Any wristband grows scratchy with days. Attending to the craters amidst drunken first afternoon of spring. Not me though, I am saving it for some inevitable spiral.
The meth’d neighbour made himself known with smiling mundanity. Fine by us, well, me–she, hardly hidden distaste, the need to disengage. The man he spoke of local happening. I egged him on without any undertones, just agreeing to our shared moment of noise. You know with these ones how they tend to never go. Or so it seem’d.
Goodbye today, I can’t not lounge, I soak in my old habits, they stay contemporary. Incessant degeneracy as in let’s meet up later and transition into maintained discord, spasms, tight faces, discomfort of vague boundaries (asserting them is so…), “getting to know one another”. The inevitable slip-up that secures an awkwardness in the area. That, or a willingness to pretend otherwise.
He’s such a great thinker that he looks two dimensional
Am I anything if not hostile towards strangers? Narrowly infinitum as in quash the sliver of warmth. My past acquaintances seem to’ve never improved over the years, they only pay to be told of their potential. It never actualises. It won’t do, these stagnant conversations. Do we not uncoil? I feel my molar loosen and know urgence. Seek something glorious in an at least personal way. Though I wouldn’t say so of myself, you can often tell when a man thinks himself a lion… Embarrassing. That or a Duke. The Bitch Goddess beckons a kneel or shred unto dissolution. He won’t do it, his mane too combed out, his pounce too perfectly calculated. Fed and only amusing himself at this point.
But what good is eating in waves of monotony?