2004-04-28 - 1:24 p.m.
this is the first part of "movie life" that i re-re-re-edited..
Women huddle like white knuckles inside, pummeled by soluble promises of sweat and the elegant posture of a wealthy appetite put within reach of longer arms longer than theirs. They dream of candid propositions left before their feet like scented rose petals placed in careful devoted intervals between familiar driveways and approaching graves-- the flowers abandoned by the stems... like children hoping the current will lead an immigration of yielding leaves towards a new home.
And for their men, habitually shaven, buried bubbles buried in champagne poured tombs,
fatigue becomes a habit. The slick green side of wayward wishes, the habitat. Words like
"if" and "why" pour heavy pictures from a brown bag, never reminding their open mouths of
any distinct memories... They stop moving from time to time.
Just stop.
.. And
stare at the hypnotic light-entrailed holes drifting in this River Styx, mounted in their
drinking hand. They can see their own faces looking back... A foam wash of men preparing
to hoist themselves though a placid invitation in the bourbon's skin, awaiting the
atmosphere's joust-ready shoulders.
And what of vigor and it's decision to hide itself in young legs. What of it. What of it. Time is a quiet infliction, something to sediment this body, something the very touch of threatens humility like a wasp about to sting her fatal decision. At times, these men dangle their consideration from helpful distance in front of the mounting collection of why-eyed women weeping together like flour and water and eggs. But unrelenting tears and thick pink necks and self-inflicted starstuck eyes mix into an angry runny batter instead of the fine malleable dough it was intended for.
(will finish the 2nd half later)
