sleeping_face lycanthrope Lust is not a sleeping face, it is never whole. Life is never complete, like writing can be if we pretend. leave meandering space alone let your precisions rest. forget what mystics see, my baby sees a game of hopscotch in my chest. It's easier than the infinite. So we use the word end frequently, because it allows us use of the word beginning whenever we want. we yearn for a resting place for our visions- a back glimpsed in a full body mirror, an arm's taut sensations, a faces slight pain/pleasure distinctions in lips unabashedly disclosing teeth, surrendering to their subtler pressure - we offload our minds turmoil onto a sleeping face. A face temporarily free from ends and beginnings, holding calmly heaven and hell. And as the futile words day and night exchange once more, a sleeping face holds lust and love still for the theatrical applause of sinners and saints. It is the one way we can never ever ever see ourselves, the one absolving posture. we pray for our illusions. we understand that the stiller we are, the more labored our motion. we paint attractive fluidity onto the inertia of a sleeping face. And we feel like gods for all our lust. We have the gall to claim it, and gasp as a face wakens strange to us, as our lust bounds to the deserted corners of morning. Dismembers what is written, slowly, from the outside in. wake up wake up, show me what has changed in the vulgar tests of dreams. 020728 ... phil today 020729 what's it to you? who go blather from