Friday, December 25, 2009

Pleasures of youth are always unhealthy

There will be excerpts. There must be more of them. Eventually, they are just obvious proofs of what will turn out to be the most interesting book ever written and read that could be produced out of me.
I could feel each click as I breathed in and out, laid coiled heaped at the gray stone steps of the cold temple within fifteen meters of the snoring saddening heavy sand by the insignificant moonlight, lingering, adding to the meat freezing numbing sickening cold. As my body lay huddled like a heap of twine I dipped in a burgeoning stream of indulgent thoughts, remembrances and half accomplished meetings. As fatigue mixed with old age drained from my eyes, shaping my shoulders percolating into the dusty orange of my flowing flimsy skirt, I thought of you dear Lord like deserter. In this same mellow cotton of the beach, I would run forward, toward you, yet looking behind. The nape and the back, the strings tying the exploding excited limbs that themselves could not contain beads of furtive encounters. A quarter of me losing direction of the wind and a half is measuring the receding dithering you.
[cut to]
Warm smoke is clouding the folds of my neck. Now, I can sing along very well. I'll tell you everything about living free! I like purple filters and orange lights in my bath tubs as lather flows down my Siam skin. I was feeling kind of sea sick but now I am smelling salts. Switching like merry radio channels and closing my eyes only to see the coast. I work now and make clean bread breakfasts and walk through swept chrysanthemum streets. I love my clean kettle and I will tell you what made me disgusted.
The pleasures of youth, the overdose of comforting margarine foods, the strained night hopping to slap the morning sun in his face, unwashed drowsy tired scents on clothes. All the pleasures of youth are always unhealthy.