Feigning coda
Who's intervening little milk lord?
You bring the meaning
Well, I'll leave the ilk at the door
Don't stop I need the bleeding
You, You're a lie on the floor
I, I’ll marry you
Well, maybe you can bury me
Ha, I’m gonna scrap the memory!
I, I’m gonna set me free
It's hard to judge an eye looking in at itself
It’s hard to see an eye feigning coda from the bookshelf
It's my entertaining pretty little craving
It's hard to see an eye feigning coda from the bookshelf
Hey, you’re still around aren't you?
Yeah, its sound alright
But I haven’t eaten in awhile
So, I might well and take a bite
When it comes to i’ll smile let myself off at trial
Tell you myself that's alright
I’ve ate what I got
Hell, pit of my stomach's free
I’d be pretty petty but, hell, it ain't’ me
Ha, there I laughed to degree
Ha, put a bullet in me
See, she’ll make me in memory
See, I'm just a revery
You can't have your milk and eat it too
Tears fall around me but, I ain’t blue
She sees I’ve ate that too
See here it's nothing new
It's hard to judge an eye looking in at itself
It’s hard to see an eye feigning coda from the bookshelf
It's my entertaining pretty little craving
It's hard to see an eye feigning coda from the bookshelf
How can I get it?
Feigning coda from a bookshelf?
Harmless
To be honest the paradox makes perfect sense. Mans a funny creature, doomed to the chambers of his own skull. Yet an odd compulsion to others, whether that be in kind or not. For a human creature to understand anything beyond the windows of its chamber that thing needs to exist in a perceivable way. People do not exist in a perceivable way, they exist in a skull. If all anyone can go off is one and others byproduct we give ourselves an edge when assessing. Simply put an individual weighs the full unabridged complexities of their own self against the often two-dimensional shell of the masses. It’s no wonder one gets the feeling they are more in the right or intelligent or moral than the trivial outer shell of society. When asking someone to assess themselves you are granting them permission to judge on their own metric.
As for physical analysis, It's more of an out of sight deal. If one is not actively engaged in physical activity they don’t really have too much to pull an accurate assessment from where as individuals who do often become proficient due to repetition. People whose byproduct suggests excellence are viewed as rare or exceptions or altogether not considered when assessing one's self as those individuals personify their own excellence and no longer feel relatable. People who are perceivably excellent are, even further, harder to find if one is not searching for them. As an all encompassing statement, people generally do not like feeling unexceptional. There really is nothing wrong with that.
This state is often the default. People tend to get driven further and further within their skulls until only what's within their realm of immediate perception is all that makes up reality. What do you expect? I doubt many reading this even fully grasp how unimpressive they probably are. If they do It’s certainly being done with a pat on the back for how much better they are than those that don’t. It’s a hard mindset to break, it's harmless and it's trivial.
PROGRESS
Felt held his head, leaning with all the weight of his chest, against the showers steam fogged glass door. Strands of dark hair writhed wet where they touched as his shoulders lurched. He couldn’t feel the tears, they were drowned by warm water. He wondered whether or not they were actually there. He couldn’t find a purpose he should have invited such an ineffective practice yet the physical symphony crescendoed. Was his heart really in it or was the sensation hollowing inside just hot air filling his lungs?
The water slid inside the tips of his fingers and stripped off his back congealing around his ankles. Sloshing within his white washed cubicle until it crawled cascading under the glass and onto the concrete floor. The water took the matter of ending itself in its own hands, slowly dragging out until the barrened eye of the shower head finally shut. The door proceeded to make an opposing decision with the breaking of what remained of its false suction closed. Felt sighed remembering to breathe. Perhaps he hadn't been crying, he felt nothing now.
In the mirror, he briefly acknowledged the new lack of grease staining the creases in his skin. There was something about his own naked reflection that was focally uncanny and sharply alluring, if that blade like sharp had been incredulously dulled. There was nothing present to prove to Felt otherwise.
“Aye, Needer,” he heard after he had been put in cloth and made himself present to the hall cradling the showers. “We’ve got a domestic, real sweetheart, names Soma. You know her don’t ya?” The man speaking stood half head shorter than Felt but was much larger in structure. His muscular semi-pudgy frame put a vaguely noticeable strain on the brim of his jeans and edges of the black shirt he wore tucked in. His hair was slicked to the side and bounced rigidly as he approached. Felt shook his head.
“I know Soma.”
“Good, looks like you're the only way she's getting out,” The man spoke thrusting a thumb towards the distant tower of the local housing complex. He pressed forward to hand Felt a slip of clean paper. “The address,” he nodded.
“Hey, what do you mean I'm the only one?”
“Davy was supposed t’ handle it but the little lady made a request. She’ll only step out for you. Ya know how it is, not healthy to avoid light that long.” The man made a move to leave.
“Whats she need from me?”
He answered with a wide grin “Suppose you'll have to figure that one on your own. Better get over there Romeo.”
The walk pulling Felt to the address printed on the now crumpled paper in his pocket was suffocatingly scenic. Flora and fauna peacocked the peripherals and flowing streams bent along either side of the path. This all to funnel him to an open lot where the falling sun could lap colors at the sky as it sulked off behind perfect mountain tops. He removed the contents of his pocket to read the print once more. It was on the seventh floor.
His knock upon her wide door felt hollow as one would expect, save the perceived depth of its ricochet. He felt a shuffle from behind the door and the vibration of a voice he could only assume was asking his name. “Hey... uh… It's me. Er, it's Felt.” The knob clicked unlocking. A button nose poked out the crack created in the doorway making itself visible. The lips below it let out a strained faintly heard voice.
“You… want me to come out?” Felt nodded. The figure disappeared from the light, leaving the door gently to sway. After a long pause, Felt inched his way cautiously through the door.
She was sitting, her knees tucked against her chest, on the floor at the other end of her bed. A television played static a few feet on the floor in front of her illuminating her full profile against the dark. Aside from a few stray socks the room was kept extraordinarily tidy.
Felt gently pressed the door closed behind him and slowly made his way across the soft white carpet to sit beside her. He looked past the hand, maned in the dried residue of bleeding nails, which lay on her cheek at the red puff in her eyes. They stayed fixed on the tv screen.
“Soma I…” She lay her head suddenly in his lap. Felt held his breath thrusting his hands above his head. His eyes hurriedly scanned her face for any hint of intention. Her eyes remained glued to the screen.
“R.. run your hands through my hair,” She gently demanded. Felt moved to speak but his voice had been taken. “What? You haven’t spent too much time jacking on pretty machines you can’t give a girl a kind touch h.. have you?” She let out a small singular laugh deep inside her throat while she shuffled to find warmth against his legs. He gradually let the air from his lips as he lowered a hand to her head. She shivered in his lap as his fingers ran through her hair.
“Soma, whats going on?”
“You’re falling in love with me.” He paused.
“I don’t know you.”
“Do you know anyone?” He didn’t respond. Absently he lifted a lock of her hair twirled around his forefinger. “Why do people I don’t know have to care so much about me? So much, it hurts.” Felt dropped the lock.
“Kindness is a virtue, we all work together to ensure the happiness of…,” he stopped. He looked deep inside the TV static. His hand continued to comb her hair.
“It hurts, Felt, I don’t know why it hurts. There's no reason for it too, not this much. What's the point of leaving this room? To get sunlight? To have all my needs catered to? Have you ever felt hungry? Or… or cold or sad? Have you ever felt pain?”
“Yes.” She readjusted her head closer to his torso.
“Where does it come from? The pain? What's the point of it? Why won’t they let me feel it? What am I to them? Why have they robbed me of my pain? Do they think they can manage it better? How is that moral? How is that just?” Felt remained silent. She climbed to her feet. “Do you even know what we're doing here? What are our options? What are we working towards? I can see an option and, Felt, I think I want to be someone who makes that decision.” She picked up his hand and lead him out the door.
It was raining outside, water showering over the concrete protrusions covering the metal walkway attached to the side of the complex outside the door. She turned and looked him in the eye. “I… I think this will show them they don’t own me, that their kindness can’t buy my soul.” She stepped atop the railing at the edge of the walkway. Felt stumbled madly to pull her down. She quickly shoved a hand out to stop him as she found her balance.
“Soma, this isn’t the way to do that. Nobody owns you, just… step down.” Felt begged glancing up and down the walkway for help. She moved to swing a shaky foot around and kneel down slightly to meet his eyes. She slipped on the rain wetted rail. Felt rushed to grab her. Clinging desperately to her sleeves he allowed her to stabilize.
“Come on,” He gasped trying to pull her off. She pushed dangerously away from his efforts. “Okay… okay. Just relax.” He moved closer, wrapping her in his arms.
“I… I think this is who I want to be,” she leaned into his embrace. Their cold lips touched gently. She whispered softly “I’ll be going now, take good care of yourself.” Those were the last words she ever said to him or anyone else. After that, he saw her jump from the building wrecking a car under the weight of her body. The look in her lifeless eyes full of the pain she had spoken of but also with the subtlety of a smile. She wanted it to stop, so she did. The water stopped falling. She had been a Needer too.
Why Dinner?
“You know I am married,” She repeated, sliding her forefinger across the brim of her empty wine glass. God sighed gesturing subtly to draw the moisture in the air to her glass, starting the dramatic switch to wine only after it had been half filled. “Adultery hasn’t stopped being a thing has it?”
“Listen, Mary,” God spoke “It’s not exactly like that. Endgames the same but there is a subtle difference in logistics that grants this case an allowance.”
She raised a brow “Why take me out a second time if this is so important to you? Why don’t we just get it over with?”
“There's an order to things, you don’t strictly need to understand. It can’t be done until the third date.” She clicked her tongue and leaned back in her seat.
“Joseph isn’t going to like this, not one bit.”
“Trust me nobody ends up caring that much,” God muttered as he stabbed at the food around his plate.
“Really? You know that?” There was a sudden stutter in Gods movement.
“Y… well yeah,” He answered taking a second to look up from his plate. “I’m God. I am the Alpha and the Omega. Who is and who was and who is to come, the almighty.” Mary practically jumped out of her seat. She looked God dead in the eyes then glanced away quickly and bit her lip in thought.
“What is it?” he asked. She slowly turned back to him.
“S… So you can see into the future and the past?”
“Well I kinda am the future and the past, existing as one if you can wrap your head around that it's actually very interesting…”
“So, could you please answer a question for me?” God took a moment to think.
“Sure, as long as it's just the one.”
“Am I remembered?” God lowered his eyes back to his plate.
“You children. No, they get your being but not your soul. That's a very misguided question.” Mary sat up, forcefully folding her arms. “Now you should have asked what meaning there is in your life, you're about to bring the world her savior.” Mary stood up.
“I hope you don’t act this way on the third date.” God sighed.
“Women,” he mumbled to himself.
Are You Lonely?
The dust of this old house creaks, creeping down my spine. The tone of your voice when you said it was all going to be fine, I knew a lie. The look in your eye when I said goodbye, I knew deceit. I put you back so they'd stop calling me ‘deadbeat’.
I hold my breath thinking you're at the door. I have no idea what I needed you for. Yet you're in my brain and under my skin and in my house. You’re this feather brains bird louse. You’ve infected the beating in my veins. These rushes of blood are just massive pains.
I crawl from these sheets and slither down stairs. Sweat at my cold husk tears. Regretfully, I descend into the abyss you’ve made my basement. Hot and huffing I take you from your encasement. With a pulsing hand, I turn you on. Your eyes are glass, give me love to last! In five minutes you’ll be gone.
This time for good.
Garneth Mortimem or How Not To Live
To gabb at the mount of gabe even florists mut up a nave,
Loosely a lumx quoth on how to behave not a twul that night would save,
Old mean crimble and crump the mistle tumpf,
What woohly marccs whose las lemarks would waist mulux but gave.
These mus le bumps make laooman gumps may mist their glucks away,
Yet garneth mucs with shomen tumps lust lumx, maigul, they say.
La Giustificazione or A Mortal Comedy
We walked, we waited. William wanted not to wither in the wind. Whining wailed against Whitney's wits. “Wait, William, we won’t warrant woe with a whistle,” she wagged. Waving wagging a tongue with a will. Wouldn’t we what wild ones wrought? Wanting not to witness Whitney watched widdershins. What would we will? Will that we won't?
Whitney's wayward wants wouldn't waive my will. Withered white my will wolfed William wet and withered with the wind. Whipped and whacked I would wolf him whole. Whistling Whitney would watch not. Whistling wagging, I wanted William while Whitney would not wake. Waggling whipping his whining waned.
Waking Whitney I wanted that whistle. Wailing Whitney wanted warmth within what he left wasted. “What would warp your work?” she wailed. “Would wax the wind within William's chest, what would you want?” What wonderful willingness. I wanted Whitney with wild wantonness. Would you not welcome Whitney's wishes?
“What would you wager?” wondered I. With my words Whitney wobbled of worriment. “Where would your words wander from, stranger?” She worried.
“Where wishes wound and wants wince. Where the winds washed William since. My word wriggles from wrecked warships and wasted steps walked witlessly whether wicked or warm. William walked wet in the wind and waited for my storm. My word wracks the whole wide world, he will wallow in its warehouse.” Whitney walked wearily within me. I watched what fate would write, whetting my wish for Whitney.
“Well,” Whitney whispered, “I would wager me whole, willingly, within you.” What wheezing and whimsy, Whitney wrought such witticism.
“Why?” wondered I “What walkway whereby you washed willfully into my wallow? Was William well enough to wear that woebegone hollow? I wouldn't want you wrenching words from worth but what weight is in Whitney?”
“Whitney was widowed,” she wept “What warmth would she warrant widowed from the world? Wedding me and willing a whistle on Williams waft would be my whole wish when furled.”
With that we walked, we waited. “Will with me Whitney! What weary whim withered within your chest, what wistful wishes wheeled me within your breast. Wet my lips wistfully your whole white width. What wistful wishes the world would waste. When we withdraw we’ll do weightier work than taste.”
“Why not? Whatever will you would with which my wish would be wrapped. Wet my whiteness or what will you would, I'm trapped.”
Whitney fell wingless within my withered will. What wonderful words I whispered as we withdrew. William woke wet on the walkway whirling with vague washed out woolgatherings. Woke with the dreamlike wraith of the white cross to his wit. Whitney waned within me. We walked, we waited. What would you will? Will that we won't?