Tuesday, May 7, 2013

Listened to that song and thought I heard him singing: "I rot. You rot. Babe." But he's saying: "I ride. You ride. Bang."



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Some place like Arizona. Yeah. Hot and dry, everyone's skin is cracking if they try to wash with just water. You better add some oil out here. 
Mother looks like she's limping towards a hellish playground. Small blonde girl sticky from a glittering bag of 'Mother's Circus Animal' cookies. This playground is quiet, Monday morning. The mother breathing hard. The little girl feeling soiled, she still wants to play, so she'll just whimper not say why. Mother exhausted, breathes harder. The brightness of the day feels painful, feels alien, the way it gives every object and surface a reflective sheen. The whole world awash in a tint like the sun you can't stare at. But you just have to stare at every fucking thing in the line of sight, if your eyes are open. They stay fixed open, they stay in the bowl of light, eyes are nauseated. Like the mercury from a thermometer breaking on the porch and some parent screaming at you not to touch the balls that are ducking for cover away from you anyways. Little mirroring orbs fighting to meld back together, these spheres that refuse singularity. Dependent mercury. This playground was constructed lazily. You can tell because the swings are placed at an unusually difficult distance from the playscape. Mother sits on the swing with her knees touching and feet halfway in the gravel, gravel filling up all-black Tony Hawk skate shoes, no socks in there. Her legs splay away from her sides, knees being pushed together like the top of some steeple. Probably

bruising.

Face twitched just then?

Tick?

Maybe it's only happening to her in this moment. Maybe she doesn't usually twitch like that.

I can't really notice it unless I pause this. Then play. Then pause. In rapid successions against the space bar. Hitting my thumb against the space bar like the hand of a boy that's wrapped around the member he just figured out how to jerk off.

She can see the little girl so far away. Standing in the entryway of the yellow slide that wraps around itself into a ringlet. Daughter says something too far away. Light feels loud. Girl slides down sloppy. Daughter. That's a daughter. This isn't really registering tho. Baby girl, that little one belongs to you.

Get with it.

Mother in a reluctant gesture fulfills impulse to swing. Pushes back against the trench of the gravel underneath the ass of the swing. She's staring down to the slightly damp ditch she pushed so far back with her shoes earlier. Lets her body fling down, lines of her palms feel like they're just splitting against the chain link. Why is the chain link cold? She's swinging higher now. Watching the little sticky blonde girl go down the yellow slide backwards. Licking the slide all the way down. Mother's light headed, feels good to swing, some fear that it will break under her weight, hips too big for swing and aching. Closes her eyes and lets herself droop into the momentum of the swing, jerk, weaken and abruptly slump into the break of the motion. Repeated. 

The camera's in the same place. It's a static shot. So.

So, the camera focuses on her face at the break of the downside of the motion of the swing. It looks like an invisible force is slapping and forcing her body down hard and like it must be hurting her back really bad. Her mouth hangs open and some spittle is getting on her shirt. Slobber that defies gravity, disperses (in moments) like a web. Sometimes her hair covers her face at the slouch. Sometimes it's behind her. It's starting to stick to her face. How does a camera do this to me? All angles and time. 

This collected timing and angling, that alerts me to the indefatigable sadness. 

This is pathetic. There should be no more watching.

Little girl crying about a bug she just killed on accident on the yellow slide. With a pinky. The left pinky.

Mother wants a powdered donut.

I think it's starting to stress that mother out. How alone they are at this playground. 

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Didn't you hear about that kid who got bit by a rattle snake in the ball crawl of a McDonalds.

I heard he died. 

Maybe it was a girl. But.

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How do you feel about people who can't honor silent L's?

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I feel, like, if you were really in love with me you'd just focus on making .gifs of me all day.

1 comment:

losenge said...

mike -o-

u hun
on shawl knit and sound vines
grey adhesive hoop for your tan hiccuped mutant muscle
!brill!
-oo-
chreso