Not even Eric Blair, a teenager anxiously on the brandy, buttoning up a shirt for a date, squeezing the rubber on his perfume, could have defended against intimacy:
Always cutesy or brutal,
This totality.
We are making gods of ourselves.
We hurry to edit the past and future,
Spectacles our computers will celebrate.
Sometimes, I watch you making stir-fry as if we are doing the gardening in Eden. We use one another's eyes as reflective water. The echo and the fall are unoverthrowable
Solipsisms,
Shuffling back to childishness, and lunging our hopes forward to a coupled death amid the narrative panic of the world.
We have our heads in a hole, our skins on a silver screen: You, Film, Strip, me.
I have to repeat to myself: I am just something in a mirror, and to keep my eyes peeled for the both of us. I have to make sure the hunt is as appealing as the haunt. Overall I must both love and fear this power. Otherwise these fantasies will see to it, disappearing - participle-proud - my personage. All over. Again.
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