dutronc

i microdose crepescule when i look into your eyes. i see the sun of your iris. and the clouds of your cornea. in your smile is a river of stars, and your lips are pillars of divinity. when you saw me, did you think: so *that* is where i need to go? a kiss from you pours the stars into my throat, the river siphons, leaving only a boat with a heavy heart, and an even heavier coat, you leave me outside to watch it turn into crepescule. i microdose crepescule when i look into your eyes.

"pinky swear?" you say. your finger crawls into mine, like a bug, or an insect. my soul is indecisive — bug or insect? an elegant ladybug, it trots, trots into the hole, into the hole of my heart, and i shall let it in (i shall let *you* in) and i will let you sit until you rot and dissolve into me. but an insect? are you an insect? you're crawling, crawling, and my heart beats you off, shivers and shivers until you become ice. by the time i stop shaking, your hand is as cold as ice, and patience as thin as thread. i took too long, and your hand slides out of mine like a snake from it's old layer of skin. oh well. ill forget this icy interlude, and be glad i loved you so.

if a violin was a human, had endured the perils and tragedies, and trifles of a human, a real, real human girl, not a façade, that façade that many, many pop stars put on today — throwing vocals out of their lungs about heartbreak — without ever truly experiencing it by themselves. but this violin, has been worn, and torn, and damaged, by many men, and many of those men who are façades in the flesh, and yet, the strings of solitude, the melodies of melancholy, pour out of the veins of the violin and into her albums of l'anamour.

meandering mind of a mad man, as my good confidant, comrade patti smith once said. if anything, it would be more shocking to find out that brian wilson was created from a natural birth, rather than being pumped out of the holy, holy, holy, sacred and divine blood of a lamb sacrificed for god, mixed together with the foam of the sea, the aphros of melomania. ive had a longing for him since i could feel longing, yes, and im sure many others do, if they're capable of longing.

the wind sighs, and oh, how i love it. it dances alongside the simmering ocean of marina del rey — simmering, simmering with love, lust, passion, surfing, and, most poetically, the scent of a alcoholics last breath. at the end of it all, the finale, the à la fin des fins, the en fin de compte, the enfin apaisé. at the end of it all, he goes back into the liquid, burning yet freezing, heart of water — the same blanket that he once surfed on, now encapsulating him in his final swim.