"Thanks for making me shake,
it keeps me on point."
my first crack at this incredible city
oh look Scotland built a new castle named Jeremy Radin look at that
Nothing ever ends poetically. It ends & we turn it into poetry. All that blood was never once beautiful. It was just red.
Got this advice from a friend yesterday & it made my heart high-five itself.
"…The valve gets broken
& then it’s just you
Emoting relentlessly, animal noises
surrounding you, within you
Either you mind the blackberries
staining the porcelain sink
or you are back there in the field
with me, rubbing your fingers
along the stings…”
What if you woke up, in the skin of a wolf, and then there you are, a wolf, with a nose full of skin smell and a mouth opening of its own accord, now biting, bleeding, all over everything, and then you’re not a wolf, you’re a man, you’re on the ground, you’re screaming for someone to save you as you are lifted and dragged and driven to a room full of screaming emergencies. But so what if the nurse in the emergency room is not so much a beacon of salvation, but a reason to keep breathing? To say hey listen, once my internal organs stop bleeding, how about you and I limp on down to the drive-in and make out for hours? And what if she said Oh honey there hasn’t been a drive-in in this town for years, and then you, in a rampant and misguided attempt at bravery, place your mouth over hers, and, for once in your life, breathe as one, with the blood rushing to your cock, the same blood that is spilling out all over the floor, and you spill, like that, all over everything, clinging to this idea of life with every bit you have, your eyes narrowing, your mouth widening, your teeth sharpening themselves on that hunger, on that promise, of the drive-in, of its absence, of life, of the ass of the nurse or the windows of the soul, something, anything, to guide your hand to that heart in your chest, and squeeze just a bit more life out of it.
But at the very end Dencombe tells his doctor, who is also his friend and who greatly admires Dencombe’s work: “A second chance—that’s the delusion. There never was to be but one. We work in the dark—we do what we can—we give what we have. Our doubt is our passion and our passion is our task. The rest is the madness of art.”