I didnt want him because I wanted the perpetual other and while I pushed him away, he pushed his him away, and the eyes that looked towards me smelt of soap and spit.
He kissed him but pushed him away, stating lispily that he was just too diirty for his tastes, and I went on explorations and quests for stars in New York City. They're nowhere in the sky. NOWHERE. So one must find them on the street, sparkling in 28th blocade pavement, lovely and truthfully lying through gapped teeth that produced some sickening kind of order.
Tzarza never MEANT pretention, his pretention was only pretention as a form of PREVENTING pretention. Understandable art is pretentious becuase one could never hope to penetrate the unique perspective of the artist who created it, fully at least. You can never experience it like he did, and to say so is the ultimite pretense.
He told me and the entire Paris art underground of 1918 that an artist who receives public noteriety for their ill opinion of his works has sucseeded in dispelling the pretention of said public opinion and it's approval from his works, and should be exctatic.
Before then and after then, another held me, hand between my knees, on a lone subway car at 3AM. He held me and he kissed me and he looked at me with whiteredblackbluegreen eyes and shaky hands and he smiled a smile I had seen before and turned from, into his chest.
Everything was sped three times its normal speed and I was flying three times above the normal ground with his sated gait and his talk of sodomy.
Darling, you are beautiful, but your mouth is wet and your fingers are soft and I love you.
*lana*
sky
