#jamesbell

I. 

They ask me to define where I live. An easy enough task. I turn from my screen (and it feels like the first time), And call upon old tools. With things in order I begin And a blank face greets me.

curious,

(and he seems so himself)

I declare my intentions.

only for the illiterates who are betrayed at every turn theyd approach with ease

(he grows in both confidence and stature) I ask: And what of genuine men?

i cannot speak of them for a wretched mask and the fathers of the masks that came before. your hair is crooked he scoffs and your diction terrible.

But It is not mine, only borrowed from the makers of your teeth and the gardener of your smile.

what has she to do with this?

She? Hollow she? Of beckoning smiles and burning cheeks? Or the one who gave us our insolence?

the former my friend dont waste time answering questions with questions youre lost in a puddle of unoriginal thought and cant swim your way out.

His words are spitting embers And for a moment I flinch. His face, once blank, Now scarred with ink. We continue.

look at what you create and cry at your lack of recognition of the importance of

silence

The importance of mice? The rotted mouse?

epistemology is dead its carcass washed away into puddles and what now do you believe in the extremities of hedonism? anything else?

(he seems desperate.) I begin to tread carefully, for he might fly away. Neither of us would notice. wouldnt that be pointless?

  II.

Incisive again, he and his regards I see slipping away Like flakes. Outstretched hand asks: Why serve me?

i neither serve nor enquire i cant recede or retire im here for you and her and all the rest to release you from your cushions and embosomed smiles.

To the real world, as real as I might find it? Or somewhere even darker?

youre making progress of the kind youd hesitate against ordinarily keep up you don’t look at me and see brickwork or the multicoloured toys of children you see potential for self-pleasure.

(I stutter and withdraw. His stained face collapses, Our argument renewed.)

you yearn for status you cant fathom the complex eludes you.

I admit to crave the feelings of none Lest I inhibit my resizing self. I aim, I guess, (I reconsider.) To the unfixed and wavering, Comfortable existence Where words said and heard Speak and listen alike.

my impression grows of the noise you create and live in. constant as constants damaging to the souls of future children.

That I want away with. I recognise, I think, The importance But not the silence.

Persevere but never prosper advise but never advocate if it wasnt for deflated balloons youd have choked on the smoke back in your infancy

She wouldn’t damage With intention, I’m sure. Blame is misplaced if we yearn for purity. Unreachable like air.

abstraction hinders us we delve beyond the point and must move swiftly toward sleep.

(I want to question his notion of finality.)

  III.

His shape pleases me, The mould beyond mould. With taut fingers I ask: What of the impresarios, And their distractionary practice?

all i know of them you know i cant speak further than your boundaries. why ask questions already answered? why think i can provide what you already know and love?

I pause.

His disfigurements appear masculine And I step aside. (Through the window hollers birdcall and ecstatic vibes. Four walls hem and I read words scattered at the ceiling’s rim.)

creation is as tricky as you make it unleash the unlocked and unloved twist them into shapes pleasing to your eye and your eye only. she hollow she in all her irrelevant wonder was not made to be muse.

His mistake ignites fires behind the eyes Of myself and all those who render ‘irrelevant wonder’. I refrain from mocking and watch the bubbling at his throat.

the prerequisites of success beckon. the glorified next big thing. idolise yourself to these and say goodbye to every sensibility.

(I recline in my chair. His struggling is pitiable.)

what of the bettered self ? the self-sacrificing exemplar? he resides far from this satanic book youve learnt nothing and will gain close to everything resented from the beginning.

(The doubts he attempts to coerce stay buried. His speech unruly and fickle. I lose my trust, and in a moment feel lonesome. Tears drip into ink puddles.)

my aside will everlast inversely unwritten and therefore eternal. judgment shall be tallied and told from these pages fortitudinal masks wont hide lines of cowardice hear me see me read me read me.

I ask: What of genuine men?

(Crawled infantile into a hole. Beyond mask and faceless facetiousness.) The impresarios? She? Concepts undone from self-destruction While I (and they) live on.

Give me the More.