heartache

so, sometimes it might happen that you get loaded up with a dose of heartache and beauty and you're sitting in front of a computer and you figure you'll just see what happens when you move your fingers on the keys.

i don't do heartache well. and yet i crave and yet i don't crave it and all i can really say is that being heartbroken as much as it sucks, if i'm really feeling it and not giving in to it; it's so much better than years lost to silent stupid suffering.

how i love you heartache, with your damning shortened heart rhythm and your imagined jealousies and your fucking panic.

heartache is not being able to make love; and here i don't necessarily mean the motion of the bodies, i'm talking mostly of the talking and the writing and the feeling and having to keep that shit in is fucking murder in a real sense. you really have to be making love all the time; like breathing and when you can't the results are the same.

but do you need an object to make love to? and here, i have to say that i see you in the speakers in the laptop and the skin stretched over my bones and the cold air freezing my toes. and then, it's not even like that; it's something giant in this heart that keeps swelling like a hard on or a pimple till it explodes all over anything and it's nature is just lightness and beauty and intoxication and bliss

and so i have my ball

and i have my chain

and ride home to heaven

in a malevolent rain

rocking with a tender

convulsing pliancy

the tears of every disappointed

numb misfortune

fill my chalis

may it be my cup

my sweet ice-cream cross

every heartache

every sadness

every quiet secret suffering