Roses die and then what do you have, oak bark for skin, bitterness crawling underneath like maggots, and some vague memory or idea about a rose. Cracks showing on the bow of the SS Idyllic. That feeling in the pit of your stomach is substantial, that drop out from under you is an indication to head for lifeboats, if there had ever been any, which there are none. Drink up, then, the best moments of your life are not ahead of you in the frozen black North Atlantic death rising up, they are not in the constellations shaped like roses, mocking with the sharpness of their patterns out here where you can see nothing else. Drink up, these are the best moments of your fucking life, such that it is, this feeling of cold wind raising your skin like whole oceans.
Thursday, June 28, 2012
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