Sunday, September 26, 2010

Dearest Jughead,

You must have been tapping your leg a lot,

Must've gotten really into the one,

That happens to me when my juices get bagged up and stored like banks of blood,
Waiting for unthinkables,
Just waiting for the tragedy of a death time.


Some people live for the end of it all don't they?
Not you.
Not my little square brother.
You're about the process; the taps, and ticks, and beats, and numbers, and scales in between all the amps and jumps.
The part of the sock folded into the pant, that's the good stuff.
Everything else has holes, and dangles, and grays.
So you might as well, well.... Fall down inside of it and make your way out.
Survive like that baby that fell in the eighties down that headlining, jug lining, pastorical accident. That unthinkable sake of my name.


Got a message from east coast half #1.
Voice message.
The Shrewsbury twang gets thicker and thicker, sets quickly like meringue in porcelain.
Linda's doing well.
Better even.
Not fair, even.
Revenge. Revenge for something I was born to fall for.
Rhymes with Eden.
Smells like, well,
A combination of two different yadda, yadda, language, jargons.
It's the better, even, judgement updates that really fill my veins Kiefer.
The dying once again's let me eat whatever I want, comfort me, familiar me.


Because it doesn't scan properly, it snags.
It pulls me under.
Gives me asthma and huge eyes.
I can't always remember the lyrics,
But they sound a little something like,
You can walk you hairy vampire!
Get up!
Off the couch!
Buy a plane ticket with all that money you stole from all those native Americans!
Put one foot in front of the other and come home!
You can talk can't you?!
Speak, woman!
I'll take you to the theatre.
I'll introduce you to my brothers.
And all the other brothers I've picked up along the way.
One of them will go bat shit crazy and purge for you.
For all of us.
For her.
For him.
For the words, and symbols, and bodies, and lives.
For interesting stage pictures.
For the friend with the crooked strings.
For the process.
The experiment.
For whatever happened to this girl, and my girl sitting there on the stairs with our arms around each other, sticking and holding. Our breath.
It's a process!
There is no clear end you blood sucker!
Life, ever heard of it?


Oh my god I thought you were actually going to do it jug head.
I mean, I knew you weren't, but you know, like, that was so cool.
Dead on.
It was like watching someone die of cancer, but they weren't sick at all, they were in complete control.
I have a lot of experience with that.
You looked completely different,
Lost the ability to speak,
Lost all the fatty tissues,
Couldn't pack any wounds,
Needed a lot of help,
All of it hand picked by you, for you, that's suicide!
Good theatre with picnics, and bean bags!
Even touches, brushes against the night gown of respect that one often catches from the disease,
It's brave to take a walk in the river.
Pour me a glass.

Keep those lungs puffed,
I love plays,
And aesthetics
That keep us
living lightly.

Turn it up,
Skin and Toast

PS: Good show. I'm OK, I just cry when people get skinny fast.

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