oh, renoir

nocturnes:
pine incense is burning and i'm forgetting how the world looks like. causing as much sorrow. creating a block that's justified. not necessarily tender and sweet. la la la la. everything's much lower and flatter, like how boring the drive was when you did it all the time and all the cars had bike racks, and that's what i'm forgetting.

music low, slow, soft, smooth. ash wood and leather. asocial animals. rolling around in a pile of jeans. arms of line and volume. sticky networking. louise bourgeois' notebooks. spreading you out on a beautiful table. polarization and discipline. sleek little sneakers. smoking grass in yr briefs. brief puffs. whispers of hair.

call me pale. i'm waving a purple scarf in the wind. a sacred scarab fluttering dead wings on dirty bits of snow.

yr vocal chords convey a physical space. i can tell we're in a vacant lot and it's sexy. i can see the not knowing, like a magnet, in yr eyes. so keep me on the periphery.

punks are romantic
concordance is like a prayer
to write without sentiment or lying seems impossible