In a corner of a corner of a corner of a city in a city in a city, lurking, gently, while the passion to be in love (or to be out of love) pours down from the expressway. Amidst a something, an anything, in all black, staring into the eyes of another, your other, gone now, distant & wet with the memory of nakedness & drawn curtains, bulging out, swollen. BANKS nails us into that time-warp, glues us, traps us, picks us up from the trash, not with hands but with a voice, further into her, into her grip. An inner ritual of heartbrokenness strenuously conceals itself, only coming out when words warning us of meanings waning out of our current world start breaking down, wordlessly. All in the head. Word for word a verb: fuck with myself. On my own power-trip. Doing me. It’s all love. It’s all good. So good.
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