Saturday, April 30, 2022

The Detective Is a Mirror

 

knowledge makes unclarity. it shrinks compartments. it makes for a world of questions, usually, easy inquiries, with easier answers. (life is simple for most, it becomes difficult for knowledge bases, it is unique for the few.) the penalty for the question, the math of the musicology, the tacks in walls falling to floors. the sewer people, the field blatant into shattering, seven years missing, asking for her affection. i don’t know what is apparent. i don’t know why a man takes offence. i don’t know why a victim is called out of her name. the stairs are louder those days. the doors were taller those miracles. kids feel sullen. men feel wrinkled. women feel with questionable tenets, Godzilla angst, King Kong anxieties. to imagine, trying desperately, never reaching the invisibility, the arbitrary, the life for me in another’s perspective. knowledge makes unclarity, it confuses what we might find secure, it points to what is unclear.     I watch the pantomime as it becomes a ventriloquist with tides and strings inside the outer wires. The rain is on the roof, dripping into the outskirts, framed in a drop as it hangs from winds; falling into misery, framing into a curse, a person looking like dementia; coming to soul, twisting into anxiety, so much love for the picture never flickered.     the bottle was full, to start its existence, it would one day be empty—in a pit of mud, grass filled with holes, water from rain, snails and snugs, slimes making easy the oversights.      


Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

    It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by l...