A Rare Occasion

Could it simply be that I was looking for love rather than it looking for me?

Platitude.

That I told myself that I could commit at this specific time of my life and that was it?

Platitude.

Then it was a game, for whoever would bite the bait first?

Platitude.

There had to be something more than this reasoning. This primal rationality. But from what I can remember, it was all me.

Platitude.

Tethered lines, feathered bows, trumping failures, givers' rows of shows' shmoozing losing faker of a being. Living on the interface of a so-called (time) code. Losers of ill conceited fates and self-fulfilling prophecies of loathing. And patience. Boredom. Bored, patient loathing. Bored of sex. Bored of loving. A quick stick in, a pitstop's drought. Giving up on the notion of my future wife with every move. Every movie. Every excuse to ignore and refuse. My grave future and the future and my grave: a wife. A grave stoned, high to the roof crumbling concrete on the slim hope that was a word characterized by mass mediated capitals which I have succumbed to and she has not. Or she pretends to not. The canon empty; an interface. A self-fulfilled prophecy, prof, you see, Ivy dropped out shopped out checked out, credit cash or debit or giftcard. Would you like a bag with that? That's 5 cents. You lose. Yes, it is returnable. Bong on the light air, makes the high even higher. Degenerate mothballs in the apartment the size of your mother's closet. Saving paper by saving face. In cigarette machines lost in the disco ages of funkshop fros and imagery which most likely does not encapsulate that generation. Images are everything, she said, but what happens when there are too many of them? There's a problem in every generation, they say, but I can't stand mine because I DON'T KNOW WHAT THE PROBLEM IS. It just exists. She feels it. Even when inside. Capitals of capitals derived by capital scum-- gum on my shoe, flavour never running out but always getting thinner.