Infinity towards the positive. No. Fuck that, it spirals and oscillates, dip, turns, dives, and by god I hate how these graphs and curves spin out and come alive. Thrashing my retina, fucking my lobes, and shit we just can't wait to see what the oscillating wonder will do next. Infinity now! Serenity now! Take a walk on the smooth Lyapunov Z's and we'll move infinitesimally closer, then farther. We'll move miles away from an infinite boy, with a brisk pace, a brew in hand, and new characters not added in when Z(space)functions with t(time). We'll walk so quickly! So quickly our eyes will bulge, and our muscles will give, and relax, so we're chill again, complete with icicles dangling from our ribs and blue skin. Dirt will kick up and cover raw, uncovered muscles, masking us with specks of personality and jouissance, fleas and ticks, mother earth's vaginal juices.
This is what we'll do. We'll meet at 4 o'clock in the morning tomorrow, plant some seeds, and walk until we bleed, drink until we're water, then bleed ourselves out all over the ground, crowning ourselves will yellowing gin, and fire red eyeballs. Is it a deal? We got bitches, tricks, dickheads, and bro's down to ride on the town, flaming motorcycles excluded, hot hands and heads included. Eenie, meenie, miney mo! We're up again. It's the fourth, now fifth, who cares? (I do.) Infinity boy carries the schoolboys under him, on their backs. On their backs, they fuck the world away and he peeps on in, giving a thumbs up, and hasty quiet little “hooray!”
Sit at the bar Farrell. I'll sit in my room. We'll watch the bar bums, exchange silly words, and recall the never-were times. We''ll down beer after beer and listen to the echo from the beer drip drop coming down our abysmal gorges; each one taking a nose dive suicide for the better, our better. But, rat poison, i've missed the beat, this can't be the script. I'm drinking to drink, to cleanse that wave of cusps, to honor the man, but I see him. I see him too clearly, shaking his head, smiling tiny, telling me these days should never have been. Mo! Eenie, meenie, miny, MOOO! My hand is hot and the hand is slapped, signaling for the icicle crash and dirt unveiling. Mo. Mo. Mo. More of this, now more of that, none of this, no , none of that. This must be the place? Sound the naïve melody, bring in the Blue Moons, and I'll listen so closely to the drip drop, and distribute my In Vino Veritas to the natives.
Every word launches caterpillars into artificial green fields, and I wonder why such a natural scene has to be so wrong.
---d(x)
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