Time for a kinda conversation?

Stop fucking around. This is it: yours. When were you ever mistaken until now? (But this is just the framework, fancied up.)

It's when shoving through the ocean during winter sounds like a good idea that you know you might be getting somewhere, but charging through the rain with a pit bull gets you noticed. It's when you fill your head with the most cunning self-deprecation imaginable for to disappear the irrational smile that still stays. It's how the things you do, have to have never been done exactly before, so that you can disregard anyone else's silly glance. It's sitting in a computer lab at 2am with your hood pulled over your face to keep your grin your own--and you know your eyes would show at least that they're holding something back.

How completely is my desire for you, simply mine? How compelling this thought is... But it isn't good enough yet. We've gotta make it into something--something maybe magnificently important.

(He's walking. Where's he walking to? He's in the forest. Is he with someone? Alone? Of course he's alone. And he's barefoot. His shoes are in his backpack and his feet hurt, but he's glad of it...)

The stones that had settled into dents on the bottom of his feet keep others from their intended invasion. Not that the pain differentiates this for him, he who would have felt either sentence sufficient. Presently, he mumbles to himself:

“It's not true, you know, don't pretend you don't. You know what's real, no matter how much you think you should forget...” He won't let his feet bleed. “Poetry's not good enough this time. There needs to be something more than words, but you have to bear it there beyond them. Just don't forget the taste in your mouth right now.”

(I want to pinpoint this. I want to describe everything; it's all very important, if only because it's not that at all. But it's all here: the wrong necklace; the insistent smile; the unlived memory of sex; the smell of polluted sea on skin; the split-ends in honeyed hues; the disregarded fingertips; the dampness. What are we to do with all of it?)

“Who else knows what it's like, not to be waited for?” He needs to eat something but he has no wish to subdue his body's complaints. It seems to him obscene, or at least inconsiderate, pausing to satisfy such things: it doesn't matter where he's going—what right has he to stop?

How can it be untrue, and still this real? What if you knew me? What would your opinion look like?

(How does one write of solitude for someone else to understand? How much is it true!? Can I ask that? A case of compliment, not substitute. Making head-way...? This is called inspiration!? Good riddance.)

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (From long, long ago...)

The avoidance of Rios v. Daisy...

Get this: he told me we can define time. Manipulate its movements -- slow it down if we don't speed it up. He said it was a matter of focus; he said all we had to do was notice. How the light glances off the tinfoil morning and throws itself into a handful of his hair. How the moment hasn't a chance at courting your memory when one at a time you keep your gaze shifted-internal. And the yawns keep coming despite the fact that all you can feel is the heat on the base of your neck as you look down...no matter how grateful you are that it's there.

The anarchists stretch out like a squirrel sitting up, and all are at your door. Old flames speak in tongues while the one that you love patiently awaits your return. So much seems to hang in this precarious balance... And still the sun blazes on having only just learned how to thaw the frost that chokes on the soil.

Always better in person. The phone line drags my voice a few thousand miles away, and it sounds weary by the time it lands at your doorstep. Still, you let it inside again. Talk this tired taxes, just passing through my lips -- and even my tongue knows itself utterly unlikely whenever it claims anything at all; always it misses the meaning beneath these dangling words' silences. But such things matter only in person.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/5/10)

Like pigeons in love.

Always that unknown. Like trying to recollect; to pay mind to the thoughts that came before, and trying not to lose them. Always that fear that the next won't come so rightly; that all you thought you had can't be had at all. That this time won't be so different.

"DO YOU KNOW HOW MUCH I LOVE YOU?!!!" Heard it screamed out in the hall. (Bullshit!) Using a word like 'love' doesn't make him any less filled with hate. Violence creeps through the spaces between his words; between the holes in the letters; on either side of each breath not taken steady. And then he butchers that barely-breathing belief left stranded between them. The crash of the 'could-have-been's being demolished; the hope for regret a stillborn: purple-lipped with skin like fading bruises. Constant & enraged, his fucked-up curses at top of lungs. Tragedy, utterly pointless.

That the pigeons come back each time, dancing their head-ducking dance. They lock beaks in shameless passion: one purple-gray, one iridescent beige. Red eyes not marked with anger; warnings given with rustled feathers & uptilt of chin. Love and quiet war: the language of nature as we understand it. Self-sabotaged and leading everything toward the furtive killing shed, full of our nameless expectation. Letting it get the better of us; denying it to our grave.

Faretheewell folk,
-Talthea (5/2/2010)