Eros Thanatos Brutus Am I sick? And does sobriety mean this body will walk without knots while soaking up life’s crassest joke? Who does that? Again, am I sick? And will I take to a healthy bed where I’ll have the courage to act sick at night and attract neo-kink-isms fostered by some sister spirit that fists and fingers a long-misnamed disease? There is a crime of illness in your mind that I need to know better and more: along the way I promise you beauty, I promise you warmth. But first, desire: Tell me why are you so hard-headed, so hard-hearted, so hard-pressed, so hard that you should have me on repeat: for here are six or seven me’s hiding faces and phalluses in the dark. Mourning the Crown Prince Grief doesn’t linger. It sticks. It makes the hands fumble and the throat gunge up. Time doesn’t heal. Time inserts itself within the pain. The clock is crueler than the calendar. Eventually the hour hand lets up. In the almanacs charting t...
Like the title says.