White Matter Text Messages

Because your lover threw wild hands toward the sky
And the affrighted steed ran on alone,
Do not weep
-Stephen Crane

Now comes the insight. The bitter mordant truth gaining purchase against the vague threats and treats we keep zipped in our pants.

Or should. So I'm--- and going ---- and she has------ and then, uh--- yeah but it's like--- you know? Oh,

Every word I have to say comes out in a kiss or a whisper

WE USE WORDS AT THIS TABLE, SON

Now I'm wide awake. A mosaic of characters and motives. Warm wet temperatures. Smoke musky smells. The colours of the forest. The many and the damned. A boy for a hero, his discordant song falling like brittle leaves on unsuspecting ---autumn headscarves. Um... The wind and the rain. The sounds in the interim.

"I've already heard of that band."

Ambiguity for breakfast. Soft cotton grinding, an illicit pink-lettered and edible passion, for dinner. Cut it down.

Now comes the---time to cut it down.
Don't be dumb. Don't use the word 'things' when you mean 'qualities about her you love'. Recall the album covers, through a forested landscape of sentimental tectonics and memory tree demographics.

I won't be much when you get through with me.

Now comes the night. Filling up your head with dreamdrops in a sea of torment. Repitition is not torture, but torture is repitition. Disparate units of belief in the somber stretches till dawn, burning blood and "avarice"

I dont know what ur talking about she texts at 4am, and you dont understand what im saying neither.

Censorship doesn't colour my mind like it does these signature melancholy blasts. Brimming with spunk and irresolution. Here's a poem:

Listen to the pretty song beneath the
good job sun,
all the twisted sister trees
disapearing into naked reaching skyward ambition
elm dreams unrealized
Cut Down
need from desire
and you're left with truth
simple, unbending
like the light of the lost latent star
beneath the beat of the one or the
other pretty great song

Now there is a fight, and now another. The silence of candescence, a girl who speaks in a system of such silences and is free of needing any other systems. "You bring it all back down to noise, or the stillness of the abyss" she whispers striding past your ear, a slipstream.

And also-- not.

You've got trouble, is your curse. The trouble consists of pounding around the heavy punches. Those uppercut bombs that start with the letter--- L. A phalanx of fierce ugly squat-faced fat men from backwoods heritages holding strong to the ax-wielding tradition.

That wet sea between your thighs and the things you do. Gibberishes "that don't translate". Anything from your mind and also --- not. Cut down.

Now is when you ask the question and I tell you.