love became for me not an adventure but a convalescence, not a portal to words but a mute sarcophagus. whereas i once sought it with the perfection of knowledge i now flee from it, where once it came to me with the ease of dreams it now bypasses me like innocence.
this has nothing to do with the stupid proclivities of society, their charts and forces, age and position and money, these lobotomized decorations rewarding conformity to militaristic indigestion, but with my having forged a contract with darkness (or light, it doesn’t matter once one reaches the contract stage) which stipulates quite clearly – clause 14.7 if i recall – that love has become a deadly allergen and i will die if i ingest it.
yet i take this news, these petty evolutions, with the violent equanimity of a saint.
oh you dead gods, how long do i have to put up with the braying of myself? what good is science if it takes so long to modify humans into the donkeys we truly are?
i remember quite clearly. i walked into a wretched cubicle at bloor station, puke and diarrhea and piss the happy flowers of the air, to take an immense dump – such environments are conducive to prize dumps and poetry – and a brown business card was passed under the clanging divider from the stall to the left of me. the perfect climes for business! all deals should be done in dirty washrooms.
some years ago when i was scurrying along a vagina to some destination i forget, a premonition tripped me and i had to spend longer there than i intended. only now do i see the significance of things and so to stay alive i run.
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