The death knell of poorly tuned voices above, turned to gray antecedents of phrase through floors too thin. Turning them outside-in, I remember the domestic issues issued out through my white fenced-in as they passed together talking, voice on voice in utter dystonic agony of cords and chords. "We've just pooled our money together..." The tone in her voice is old with its piercing affectation, her mother's, as her grandmothers, as infinity back some ape, some paramecium, some dim clump of atoms said to another, all at once, "Get away from me stay close by. (The strong and/or weak nuclear force?)" What do you want from him? I ask myself sitting supine sipping on green tea as always, purified puffs of sinuous synthetic smoke curling past my bearded lips in parody of wise men smoking pipes solemnly ages ago in Great Britain, of curtained knowledge never to be expressed but through dumb looks and pretentious expressions which really tell the questioner, "You know what to do. (You poor self-unsure bastard, you.)"
Stamping feet above on boards on bored minds moving through the flickering pictures and sickly melodious beats of some romcom/sitcom/dramidy, undoubtedly, and these specific sensoriums are the tomb of couples, new and old, destined to find themselves again in each other's pallid arms as images and hypnotic sounds shuffle by, their embrace an expressive echo of those who begot them and so on and so on, to the original atoms. Is this packaged and distilled emotion they feel for each other the same as Romeo and Juliet? Yes, Shakespeare was sooo popular, a hack through and through. Rich before death like all our current Hollywood zombie-kin. Look to see their dead eyes interviewed sometime. And though that dead unenlightened fuck shits in our faces we take it again and again, as LITERATURE, like it's better than the drivel parceled out through the pixels of high def screens functioning more like mirrors, tuning their viewers into what everyone thinks one ought to be.
I hear the sudden scream of coitus one day and, in anticipation of the release of oxytocin, play death metal loudly, hoping that in the coupled heap of mistimed movements above somewhere in its mind, weakened though their curdling fleshly orgasm it will somehow associate harshly quick timed muffled roars with the short bliss of afterglow in each others arms animated with the motions of love learned rotely through the gently shimmering light of silver screens showing awkward first kisses, and the robotic motions of their predecessors (parents), rolling in their graves as though on stage for their progeny long after the death of their minds on their wedding day lobotomy, well, not right then but some few years after (You can see I'm a bit of a romantic). So they gently encapsulate each other like electric dolls bought at Wal-Mart, blissed out for a moment, so maybe I can play this music louder and for longer later on. It's worth a shot?!*
*No, it's not. I do it anyway.
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