Mind dump U

Satisfy. Now that’s a word you need to taste.

Never replying, always smiling. The look that leads her up away from him, from you, to. A repetition.

It’s a harsh world without humour.

I see the (tension rev.) between couples: he’s the ‘slightly edgy, but acceptable’ type; she’s the one who’ll win. (Or they’re another divorce statistic in the making). They can see with.

Me they can’t.

All I see are hints and rumours. Restless spirit, ghost on earth. Let my subconscious breathe.

I’ll run into the fantasies you tell me are my own. A sign: “Freedom is yours; use it.”

Today this day is done. This is done. Where more?

I do not think an orgasm will make me happy, just feel good.

Where shall consummation take place?

My soul, a twisted column of polished, etched dark.
My soul, twisted, to let out the light it captures.

Dare (Alan Sugar). And now to cast myself on the mercy of others.

Feed the hole in our hearts.

A pointless doodle, a meaningless pattern, over and over and over and over.

Sometimes I sit here, protected from all that I could be, would be and feel each second of fear come and go. Come and go, seamlessly joined but separate, distinct enough for me to see it, feel it, know it, live it. But not live.

I’ll use the obligations I say you would impose on me if I did not already concede the weight of their unspoken (state/being/words/…other) as that glass screen we both want: it to protect us from each other, from what we want, from recognising the value in what we so carelessly discard.

The sleep twins prick at (my eyes) me.

Laid a trap with honeyed words and the reason of desire; longing to no longer be lost.

“I am a busy man; I take my pleasure (on) occasionally when I have spent all my other time productively.”
“ Ah sir! You are an old romantic! But I am a new! You have much to do in business and so you consider women a trifle, a diversion on demand, a part of your schedule.
“I, on the other hand, consider them my primary occupation.”
“You consider women to be your business, sir?! What profit is to be made in that?”
“Indeed” said M, eyes flashing for but a second “more profit than one can measure with any number of accountants and tax men, sir!”

Think of the moments. The moments within the years. Pinpricks upon your skin, minute, transient, piercing. So little among so much. But that is what you remember. It is the what was.

I’ll choose my demons: the drink that kills me though it makes me happy not.

Bath.

You see the years between the two (of them) and their desire to squeeze them out from between the two (of them). They speak in synchronous tongues but languages the other does not know, nor ever will. The music adds and eerie colour, a little warmth you feel inside.

I walk among my people. [ The truth shall set you free.

He blames her, like all those who cling to their belief that they are superman, sans pareil. “It’s her fault!” Never acknowledging their own failings, too ----- to accept their role, their calumny. He looks in the mirror: “Good pecs. Great abs!” He’s still got it. He could easily find another.

There’s comfort in just drinking.

George Best: Arch twat. Not only ruined one liver, one life, but two. Two lives: a privilege afforded to perhaps too few, but too many arseholes.

The mouth is the ultimate phallus

It changes from comments to questions that I don’t want answered at this time (deja vue?)

So many ways to discover life, but it all feels like history – a lesson in the slightly unreal.

The good people: the forgotten, even as we look to, look for our own, we look inside.

The shopping experience with a woman – ha! Had one, had ‘em all.

“I am a little someone of everyone.”

It hits my pride; oblique, off-centre, vector wrong and rests cosily deep within. A direct hit.

A poster. A model. I look and she looks back. So I look. And we bat it back and forth. You can do that with attraction: stare and stare and stare, breaking it down, chipping away at it. The first look comes right back at you, the second just as fast, but eventually the cracks show. Eventually you break them down. Usually. Of course she’s not here to defend herself, to fight back. As if she could. Against me.

Chunky. She’s unhappy with herself, but confident. Over-confident? Not for what she is, no.

Broomstick hair
Some will never change, I see you then: now. Know one, know them all; or as good as. “This is my stop”.

Number 2 reciprocates, followers follow.

Sleep’s patented eye-shadow.

I forget about the freedom of speech thing: I’m talking to a bureaucrat. If he could be anything else we’d be on the same side of the glass.

She has an uninviting face: too little skin over too much bone.

I’ve lived in your worlds, some seemingly better than my own.

Skirt’s quite nice. Tight. Makes it look like she’s got a bum; an arse.

Talking sh…op. Why do people repeat others’ words verbatim? Like eating stale bread. Twice. Do you?

I don’t know why, but tonight I want to thank God.

Display the same weaknesses in many ways (?)

Sometimes, something fills me to the brim: Bacchanal.