1. On my city morning The wall opposite my window fantasizes alone whilst the cloud ribbon sky treasures its infinity. And my ceiling White torn ceiling holds me in. Like the borders of charity. In which i breathe and drink. A wine crack reddens my lip. On my city morning Like some sort of artificial dogma argued by kitchen table critics. With sinking thinking. The tick of the fascist clock. 2. And I suppose the city will dwell in its own deep fried benevolence long after these bones have biodegraded under the cement pillars of the suburbs or anywhere else for that matter. And, as i stood on the blood-splilt cement on Darlington and Kings I noticed a sense of disbelief. A deep mood untouched. With the weights of notoriety obtaining a thick corner to unbalance my liberal hearts' moral spires. While the severely hunchbacked hag is forced to stand on a bus. Her china plate eyes disintegrating into the distance, like the credibility of a thousand artists. O, it is I. The seemingly lone tree standing among bricks and bones. With these snide creatures and 11 dollar forty lattes'. However, I did find a vast field filled with sulking trees. And sat at the base of the 7th oak, I may as well be Bonaparte. Sketching the unknown perimeters of this trees vision. Like a blind man taking a photograph. And perhaps i was enlightened for some measurement of time. 3. A new circle of soul-mates. All for myself. In this new field! Alex who talks since and since-abilities between cigarettes. Paris who talks hypothetics and realetics over her spinach and cheese roll. Victoria who ranks supreme in inwardness, but utters in disbelief between gazes at me through my eye glasses. And a young man, whom noone can name, who sits to my left and says nothing. His eyes blocked my his black sun-protecters. And finally, everyone else. May we forever discuss the importance of Neo-plasticism in modern design. Or how the Emo's stole skinny jeans. Or how John Cage is ten plums in a fish-tank. Our post-postmodernism is ridiculous. Each of our grandmothers would be appalled. As we will be equally appalled at our grandchildren. May the coffee in our minds continue the cycle.
