A Collection of Spectacles

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01. The boundless possibilities of language were forgotten two positions ago. I search for whatever vowels and consonants I can find, tossing them into the dead air, but it’s a useless task; The act of releasing sounds doesn’t lessen the intensity of what runs along my contour, passes over and fills the area between one side of my outline and the other, moves up and down (hitting and at the same time soothing the numerous points in-between) plunges in and runs through, navigates the wires beneath my skin and forces them to rethink every connection they’ve ever made before. Precisely as you touch, sometimes gently, sometimes with a force that can’t be imagined otherwise, everything that is blissful and not is experienced simultaneously, creating a state that language has yet to create the perfect word for. If there was ever a moment that I didn’t spend scrambling, trying to find my place in temporality, if there ever was a space in which everything was found, via a void, it is there (which will be here again, soon) and nowhere else.

Overall, I need to be trusted. Just trust.

I’m losing the fervor with which I write such things, for they always seem short-lived.

I feel like I’ve written that sentence before.

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4 Responses

  1. Joel Arken says:

    Kyrie suggested we go for a drive in her new 2-door BMW coupe
    In the parking lot, we slipped into her bucket seats
    Kyrie took over from there.
    At nearly 90 miles per hour she zipped us up to that windy edge
    Known to some as Mullholland, that sinuous road running the ridge of the Santa Monica Mountains
    Where she then proceeded to pump her vehicle in and out of turns
    Sometimes dropping down to 50 miles per hour, only to immediately gun it back up to 90 again
    Fast, slow, fast fast slow
    Sometime a wide turn sometimes a quick one she preferred the tighter ones
    The sharp controlled jerks, swinging left to right before driving back to the right
    Only so she could do it all over again until after enough speed, and
    enough wind, and more distance than I had been prepared to expect
    Taking me to parts of the city I rarely think of and never visit…

  2. Joel Arken says:

    I can’t remember the inane things I started babbling about then, I know it didn’t really matter, she wasn’t listening
    She just yanked up on the emergency brake, dropped her seat back, and told me to lie on top of her
    On top of those leather pants of hers, extremely expensive leather pants

    mind you, her hands immediately guiding mine over those soft, slightly oily folds
    Positioning my fingers on the shiny metal tab, small and round, like a tear
    Then murmuring a murmur so inaudible that even though I could feel her
    lips tremble against my ear, she seemed far, far away
    Pinch it, she said, which I did, lightly, until she also said pull it,
    which I also did, gently parting the teeth, one at a time, down under
    and beneath, the longest unzipping of my life…

  3. Joel Arken says:

    We never even kissed, or looked into each other’s eyes, our lips just
    Trespassed on those inner labyrinths hidden deep within our ears,
    Filled them with the private music of wicked words
    Hers in many languages, mine in the off-color of my only tongue, until
    as our tones shifted and our consonants spun and squealed, rabbled faster, hesitated, raced harder
    Syllables soon melting into groans or moans, finding purchase in new words, or old words, or made-up words
    Until we gathered up our heat and refused to release it, enjoying too
    much the dark lane which we had suddenly stumbled upon
    Prayed to, carved to, not a communication really, but a channeling of
    our rumored desires, hers for all I know gone to black forests and
    wolves, mine banging back to the familiar form, that great revenant mystery I still could only hear the shape of
    Which in spite of our separate lusts and individual prize, still
    continued to drive us deeper into stranger tones, our mutual desire to keep gripping the burn
    Fueled by sound, hers screeching, mine…I didn’t hear mine, only hers, probably counter-pointing mine
    A high pitched cry, then a whisper dropping unexpectedly, to practically
    a bark, a grunt, whatever, no sense anymore, and suddenly no more curves either, just the straightaway
    Too bad dark languages rarely survive…”

  4. Alexandra says:

    Speaking of words, I’m speechless.

    Thank you, Joel. Thank you. Absolutely marvelous, perfectly magnificent, and on and on and on and on and on and such…

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