Post by Alex Forsberg on Jan 25, 2014 8:28:03 GMT
Dry Libido
As I lie here next to you, the only thing i can sense outside of myself is barely perceptible; it's the scent of your sweat, its imperceptibility wrought most forcefully by its constance.
The scent is my guardian angel, or perhaps my angel's greatest foe. It seeps not only from you, for if it did, it wouldn't even exist. But it does exist, as the fibers of my brain exist, as the unappreciated mechanism through which all else exists.
I smell it on those solitary, semen-filled Tuesday afternoons, hypothetically spent in my sister's thong, checkin' out that ass o' mine.
I smell it on those nights in which I permeate through dreams of sinisterly laughing friends dying brutally, without cause, only to wake up with sunlight directed precisely to my ugly face by the angles of window shutters.
I smell it when I hear my six-year old nephew yell, "Shit," then looks to me hopefully.
I smell it in the dry meandering of a Pynchon novel, in the insatiable depth with which that man burrows into the seemingly uncharted tunnels of my psyche, which, like the scent itself, remain ever-present, static, yet seldom recognized, or even bluntly brushed-over.
I smell it even more potently when I realize I have adopted this Pynchonian meandering as the foundational, underlying outline of my life, my intentions. His dilution of beauty across hot minds driving through hot city-streets, the deconstruction of every emotion, every purpose, every instance of love and fear, of passionate hate, to the point where the dilution itself becomes the embodiment, the crystallization, of the beauty. I lose myself to this realization, as it gets lost in me. It penetrates to the purest layer of my creative consciousness, until it becomes not only inspiration, but creativity itself, not merely my reason for moving, but my movement, my ability to move at all. This movement through the driest, most weary domain of "the human" is not by any means enjoyable, but it is however honest, and therefore necessary.
So as I lie here next to you, I see that you are the personification of the smell of your sweat. You are the means through which I interact directly with the vacancy of those Tuesday afternoons, the vacancy of those sinister dreams, the vacancy of my nephew's "shit," the vacancy of Pynchon's prose, the vacancy I have become, and have always really been.
Maybe that's my love for you . . .
As I lie here next to you, the only thing i can sense outside of myself is barely perceptible; it's the scent of your sweat, its imperceptibility wrought most forcefully by its constance.
The scent is my guardian angel, or perhaps my angel's greatest foe. It seeps not only from you, for if it did, it wouldn't even exist. But it does exist, as the fibers of my brain exist, as the unappreciated mechanism through which all else exists.
I smell it on those solitary, semen-filled Tuesday afternoons, hypothetically spent in my sister's thong, checkin' out that ass o' mine.
I smell it on those nights in which I permeate through dreams of sinisterly laughing friends dying brutally, without cause, only to wake up with sunlight directed precisely to my ugly face by the angles of window shutters.
I smell it when I hear my six-year old nephew yell, "Shit," then looks to me hopefully.
I smell it in the dry meandering of a Pynchon novel, in the insatiable depth with which that man burrows into the seemingly uncharted tunnels of my psyche, which, like the scent itself, remain ever-present, static, yet seldom recognized, or even bluntly brushed-over.
I smell it even more potently when I realize I have adopted this Pynchonian meandering as the foundational, underlying outline of my life, my intentions. His dilution of beauty across hot minds driving through hot city-streets, the deconstruction of every emotion, every purpose, every instance of love and fear, of passionate hate, to the point where the dilution itself becomes the embodiment, the crystallization, of the beauty. I lose myself to this realization, as it gets lost in me. It penetrates to the purest layer of my creative consciousness, until it becomes not only inspiration, but creativity itself, not merely my reason for moving, but my movement, my ability to move at all. This movement through the driest, most weary domain of "the human" is not by any means enjoyable, but it is however honest, and therefore necessary.
So as I lie here next to you, I see that you are the personification of the smell of your sweat. You are the means through which I interact directly with the vacancy of those Tuesday afternoons, the vacancy of those sinister dreams, the vacancy of my nephew's "shit," the vacancy of Pynchon's prose, the vacancy I have become, and have always really been.
Maybe that's my love for you . . .
