Ramblings from The Look Out

by heytherewildflower

This shit you’re about to read or not read is just… the result of one night alone in my bar (The Lookout) with nothing to do but write and drink gin&tonics. So…yeah. Didn’t edit it much, only deciphered the mad scrawling and cut out what didn’t make any sense. 

Ramblings from The Look Out

Our society’s addiction to exhibitionism and obsession with the
prestige of tragedy. Sir Loin and The Butchers. Change your
legal name to Dear-Sir for kicks? To flirt with fury?

Collusive initiating of desire. Ambivalence which seeks
responsibility; to move, to shock, to break all body parts.

Susceptible to the mire? Brutally complicit. Eaves dropping. Hooded by
shadows in your corner of the bar. Investigative of taboos called upon
as one goon orders tequilas for the good gang of boys she came with.
Note the squelch of her face sucking the lime. Fuming clouds belch
of the idiot mouth. Her focus rests on a man more marginal than a
boyfriend or a midget. Savage mosaic of futilities.
They flirt without fury.

THe ocean’s risotto cake waves, spilling awake, breaking over
and onto itself. Grumble saturated by breath and the fury
of lovers, our salty ocean waters.

Who was Noah before the flood?

Moonshine was a glimmer in the eye of
the alcoholic. Prohibition nipped the addict in the bud
of blossoming inhibitions– when the lack of utility was noble.
An art requiring practice. The conspiracy of genesis
was one which required flowers, and vaginal imagery,
and images belonging to each sense.

I have an itch to break myself into an astronomically girly state.
inhumanly girly. I am a girl first, and a person last, and a sex
obsessed freak in between and all over and all the time.

Not the rose, not the pen, not large billowy tits, not showmanship
and a white smile, neither his desire for, nor the heaving beauty.
Not her innocent beauty, phrased so, as the weapon of hair; neither
the scent of innocence, of mermaids, with scales stinking like caught fish,
nor the sad, sardonic voice of the siren growing tired.

Sad, semiotic mizzle of Seattle snow clouds, sad un-aborted child
growing like a consequence, sad womb blossoming inside the unloved
mother. blooming like a child beneath the sunshine of a mother’s
un-love for herself.

I hate to be touched. Hate sex as I hate the dust of my skin. Rosebud
pink lips cracked in protest. Hair, color of tooth blankets, splitting
at the ends. I hate to be watched close.

Why do I always let you die? For the no more proof of you. When I was six
years old I learned the heart stops when you sneeze and I was
comforted. It’s not scientific until I die for good.
a suicidal transvestite on acid licking pink floyd’s
undulating rainbow, black milk for the black calf.

I would’ve died of bambi doe eyes if you hadn’t lured me to
narcissus’ dark pool first. The reflective mechanism for producing
self hate and flowers (which is the same as love). (love worshipping
at its own alter). and the sacrifice, to announce myself.

Prelapsarian, according to the trivia host, and the champion trivia
teams, FuckDeadPrince and the Dickbells, is the dictionary approved,
fancy-ass terminology for before the lapse of judgement.
before

she took a bite, pre-fall, post-genesis, naked-ass Adam and Eve in the
naked-ass garden. Swagger like us.

Tragedy, plainly spoken, is the disgust of the older generation with
youth, with language sublimating into slang. Their beloved slang with
a crude new twang. That’s what tragedy is. Because language is
uncouth.

It’ll slap a whore with aids after fucking her mouth. Beautiful in the
paws of the animal it begets. Terrible in the sick maw of a foaming
revolutionary pontificator. Sexy as dead. Sexy writhing with worms on
the corpse of a righteous poet. Rose loosing its petals as bullets.
with beats. as stitches,

appliqued to the proud shoulders of the gown worn by the prodigal
whore dolled up as the modern day jesus’ main slut-ass squeeze. Kindly
obliging to the obligation of her kind.

What was good. Human anguish made him cold. arctic. baroque. He was
sick with Romantic revulsion. We were humans in translation, and
cheerless. The issue of android porn was unpleasant conversation.

It all fell under the same umbrella corporation. Un-polite and too
political. The may queen cease to interest the bushes from which
flowers had already been plucked. That year, reality Television paid
dearly for lack of interest in minimalist pageantry galvanizing
animalism.

Masochate, A musky smell overwhelmed by the dying flowers wretch rot.
If one writes a poem about flowers, the cliche is to rot or to speak
of rotting as a human thing. The sunlit world making a conniption of
the freshest rose, the rose becoming acquainted with death, wild with
sadness, wildness registers sadness thoughtlessly. A seeding malignant
bud upon the corpse you want to be.

Death cupping the cheek, cheeking the fact. The self stopped short, in
the manner of the darker self.

The Nina, the Marina, the Santa Maria, cartoons set upon the sordid
landscape of discovery. Angels of the sea, Sirens themselves, bearing
their captains forthe, towards destiny and her white man burdens.
Hysterical eye for the new moon dripping parentheses and tears and
cliches.