I was replaced happily, knowing what I was in for. It's all a sleight of hand, and I was becoming. With a unmemorable sidekick I found my ticket to New York. I smoked at night, was raucous, lived a full life with ten bucks in my pocket and an overabundance of stories about my childhood. You should see the river around this time of year. And then my heart stops, round the pole again and again. Kate. Swooning we sink, life and love and the brilliant piano melody parade. I'm having the time of my life, or something quite like it. Star Wars for Girls. A nest-of-ants retreat. A bee in my inviolable hand, preparing to sting.
An unexplained phenomena, surging momentarily before ducking back around the corner. I stand there half humbled, a millstone hanging precariously. Invective everywhere, supercilious. A moments notice and i'm ready, composed fitfully. All shameful tears, standing just a step from her, thinking things that could send me mad. I retreated into my indolent newspaper opinion piece, so how about that team, that social habit no-one really understands, that government of ours, me and my asinine photograph, my new book which i'll read twice before writing another. For posterity, for the critics who'll get the point when i'm dead. And I escape succesfully, feeling like a trendy newspaper profile shot with finite energy. The details: One barely sipped skim latte (no froth), one foreign beer ad, one rusted metal fence, one dark and serious playwright hailed as one of the leading figures of his generation. "Basically the play is about a group of teenagers trying to find escape in sex and drugs. My work is similar to Tarantino's in that its a black comedy. Yes, I am that troubled and profound." All this overdue modernity, expired validations, tickets browned at the edges and ticklish in the centre. Look, that's you Pointdexter! I sink into goofball romanticism, into a movie I saw on cable. Oh they had designers then...
I was aware of her laughter and being caught within it, so I decided that if the shaking of her breasts could be stopped, some of the fragments of the afternoon might be collected. That behemoth, drowning with such superb style. I was impressed beyond belief. And I rushed out with wet hair to preach, sitting in a bus speaking freely. "It's a good film, admittedly for particular reasons. Don't stand on that spot, they used to burn martyrs there". What was I feeling? What did the critic feel the first time they saw the film? The second? Oh the shame of needless repetition! The verdict? Silliness from heaven, a guilty pleasure for those gormless enough to take the bait. Still, I'd rather be famous than righteous or holy. And Miss Winslet? Whether it be in night and solitude or in the streets among the multitude, her ghost dances before us like a torch.
Epiphanic descent, a strip of light diagonally depicted. A flight, too short. Disagreeable populism, that sly cad with too much faith in the future. Mr. Cameron, lecher extraodinare, four awkward steps that lead to a comfortable sofa and strained laughter. I think this question would be best answered in mime. The kind people have a wonderful dream, James on the gulliotine. When will you die? Floating on driftwood, looking for salvation. It's tragic, looking as antique as you do. Beaten senseless, snatching the lost moments. I feel so cold, all hookers and gin, this mess were in.
adam rivett
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