Sunday, February 14, 2016

2 tender

Machine 2 desiring machine. 

At night, all the fingers pulling left, meat-grade red animated stamp bearing "NOPE" hangs over the image of my face/body, less than a second, dissolution. Never have to look at me again. Lying in bed imagining the repetition inflicted on my volunteered image, over and over. Conceiving this, tho, without feeling any anxiousness, there's no insecurity. Is the obscene amount of discards I imagine accurate? Really, most likely, so many more.

Do I feel it in some physical way each time they effectively waste me? No. NOPE. But I get a sensation, thick glossy sheets ov paper slipping out under my shoulder blades, if I focus into it. i self loathe enough to get off on it, at least a little.

When your ears are ringing, someone thinking of you? No.

We dissolve in there together. 
Or are vended. 

It is unlike the thoughts of rejecting you that float inside someone else at night, or the backpedalling glances at bars that go unseen by the recipient, by you. This is tangible, concrete. Secretive act, but an act. An imprinted reflexive expulsion. The organization of the system protects me, won't allow for disclosure or recognition. Algorithm works against. This series of eliminations does register, somewhere. 

Just another thing we do in this heap. Don't apply moralisms. Like a friend said, if I try to think about it with them,

"Stop the dissection.

You're wasting time."

But I deleted it. 

And I am, I am sorry that I am a bigger dog than a lot of men combined on instagram. 


Millineries said...

Millineries said...

"I couldn't say it to your face.
But I won't be around anymore"

c---y said...

russell's tenor / intention must've had heartbreak in it, his DNA, it had to be chromosomal