A June prose

It is nothing but a stab at our brains that we are only words to each other. I don’t wax romantic. In the manifold curling of your neurons, that morbid electricity which keeps you thinking, hungering, pestering, and lonely in your own body, there is a center for communication. The rest of the brain you inherited is laboring solely for you, your functions, the almost limitless within-the-skin processes your limited chemical laborers perform not for you but for their ignorant cells amalgamated into the illusion of your inhabited self. Even the boiling you might or might not feel in your genitals or convince yourself you feel is the product of your imagining, or of the figment you can sense with closed eyes or no eyes, hot breath is mere steam from a saucepan, and seductions mere lineaments of ratios under mathematics. Only the sounds speak true, and at that rarely, and most of it is yelling, squeaking, squealing, and if you live a long life with many good deeds and few blotches on the record of your demeanor, maybe an I love you that doesn’t sound like the roaches wrote it. But, of course, one never knows what those roaches are capable of.

“…chattering about the ears so much and so many.”


~ by Jeremy on June 13, 2012.

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