Saturday, August 27, 2011

These pictures of you


I’m dirt and grime. I take pictures of myself on the ground under some witty piece of cherished graffiti. I take pictures of myself hopping and leaping in mud on the cold nights of some drifty city somewhere, but in America only. She--my muse that is--, she is perfection, sweet elegance and she uploads pictures of her beauty in Milan, in Brazil, in Paris, and the straits of endless passes that only she can visit. Each photograph I put up stands in the utmost contrast to hers, and I know we’re both thinking of pictures. Which will we allow? Only the best of our worlds, and hers overpower any I could ever take. Her beautiful dresses hanging next to doctors and lawyers in some Indian city I could never name, and certainly could never think of going to. We picture our pictures’ lives and the people at their computers thinking about those lives, and we plan our facial movements in accordance, in perfection. The watchers eat them up, comment on them, mull them over; they’re really effected by them, or so we think as we wait through the few moments required to transfer a picture to the public’s eye.
            Those white and shining dresses she wears and flaunts on our mutual network are only mine. I devour them, vigilantly scouring for updates on a pose, a new pore I never noticed, a neck vein, a muscle in the leg, whatever is new. The only thing I need from her is the new. I need more clay and she needs more molding and we play, even if she doesn’t know of my eyes and my thoughts or of her leg muscle, neck vein, eyes, eyes, beautiful eyes, I know about them.
            No one has ever seen a picture of mine except for her. The typed words on the screen from some long non-existent person are purely fiction, a system edit. Every picture is for her; it couldn’t be any other way.

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