A Cold Dinner

NOW are those sure hearts to leave this empty beach, the weather wrought with hurricanes, the water fish to deify where the paddle was, where he sprouted disheveled chin and beardless chest the same, grasping the early in time the moral treasure he rotted at the bottom. Is even now he rots. rose bob. feel these cold nights, creeps of night seas, a thin secret being more intoxicated than well, drugged out the man and would grin a millennium to come.
What a fucking idiot. an idiot. this turn of events his sudden focus. the woman who stole from him all his violent and sensuous fears despair. his warm arms now become impromptu ones. the ellipses here, but only in intimacy. his fingernails roughened coarse, fingerless to say, yet as they are repeated in his gray, decrepit manner, afraid of breakage, one foot scraping his toes like an afterthought, receding at the matter caught, at no matter.” here, no “and himself” by which to capture a crowning tense reality, a man who will not listen for the godlike one who will, who resembles his index fingers until now.
what is a traveler who wants to look forward as though to complete his vacation? what would that be like?
he must leave, but when he gets home, he wonders if she cares to know he came. what will she do to him when they finish sharing dinner? what will he do for her, will she report him to the media? what will he take from her that he didn’t already have in his pocket, that he’d no longer stop her from becoming the next flower in his balloon of affection? who am I going to tell when I want to leave him alone? this cop-out argument makes no sense. what a narrative.
a son wins that fight but can’t cross-train. nothing changed: the given weight of events and the deadened sense of impotent disappointment that someone could be so cruel in their harm. heart-breaking anesthetic: think about this feeling of knowing, in our modern ultra-deprived state, that someone they knew was in pain, taking his last breath, his final wink, and no one was there to hear, watch. but no one called, nobody entered his recovery bedside, they just got up the courage to look and not the baby eyes, felt for a moment that awful gentleness he could never have found, that kindness and generosity. and then this society of no empathy was the least of our problems? honestly, why did they do that? the things
I wonder about are huge:
what of the child from all those shells of books and shorts and pulps? what of all the talent that has stagnated in the slam. of all the raw beauties buried in the spaces between expectation, shame,and self-doubt, behind us like a mill!

10.14.2020 ::

About EPRobles

Writer, Artist. I like to paint abstract acrylic images onto canvas. I love to read everything, and I especially enjoy science, philosophy, and the arts. I'm new to the blog experience and I very much enjoy it! I hope to learn as much about all the features that WordPress offers and thank you -- my visitor -- for taking time to read my words. Peace and love... View all posts by EPRobles

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