Baudrillard goes to Vegas

"
The secret affinity between gambling and the desert: the intensity of gambling reinforced by the presence of the desert surrounding the town. The air-conditioned freshness of the gaming rooms, as opposed to the radiant heat outside. The challenge of all the artificial lights to the violence of the sun rays. Night of gambling sunlit on all sides; the glittering darkness of these rooms in the middle of the desert. Gambling itself is a desert form, inhuman, uncultured, initiatory, a challenge to the natural economy of value, a crazed activity on the fringes of exchange. But it also has a strict limit and stops abruptly; its boundaries are exact, its passion knows no confusion. Neither the desert nor gambling are open areas; their spaces are finite and concentric, increasing in intensity toward the interior, toward a central point, be it the spirit of gambling or the heart of the desert - a privileged, immemorial space, where things lose their shadow, where money loses its value, and where the extreme rarity of traces of what signals to us there leads men to seek the instantaneity of wealth.
"

You are unable to sleep, so you sit up and write, the next morning, you awaken to realise you had being asleep the whole time.

(so i guess i wank without noticing i do so which sucks)

Outside my window, you look so beautiful standing stoic in the rain. Left unsheltered by the leafless trees, the drips that drape you that quiver and glimmer. You are incandescent against the all else grey. To this cataclysmic splatter, I reach out to touch and as my warm tingled fingers press the glass it appears to melt liquotic, it ebbs and flows within itself for a split eternity. Only to pause as finale, it drizzles into oblivion with a shrill.


I step out. I stand to join you under the deluge. You resist my offer of the moth eaten umbrella. And so we stand. Kindred in our cold. Frozen hands clasped.
It’s miserable, so unnecessary, we laugh.

By candles in bed with sheets crumpled and empty, banality is charm , cancer and qualm. You are the moon, you are its fire. Your breath burns the nape of my neck.

The constant streetlamp, slats through the blinds. I try to sleep but your inconstancy prises apart my eyes.
There are streets and moss I tread carefully. And steeples and fences I climb relentlessly. There are glimpses I catch fleetingly then forget. The drone of the traffic will hum about my ears.

It is all, all this, at my fingers, but escapes their malleability
My chest will expand and then rest, I will grab your arm and press your pulse.

i could feel your fragility under your coat. but there was nothing i could do. nothing anyone could do.

the cold was biting, even in the place where you had lined up, under the sun. the younger ones, naive still, clenched their faces as their eyes flooded with tears.

the older ones joked and jibed as they held their relations tight, the devils smirk of gallows humour drifting like spirits from their lips.

the world carried on, beyond the walls, it could be heard, a frenzied runaway attempting to escape itself. to no place in particular.

as smog fell upon the mourners you stood, frozen in your grief, a vision in black, ensnared by the sadness of your love. i am so sorry.

a qualm in the lyf

The mundane lyf of _ _ boasted no bonuses, bar the company car and the company mobile. Not having learnt to drive, and with fingers far too wonky for the fine details of the phone keypad, neither bought any use.
All there was, was the disinfected squalor of mothballed routine and the clicking of keyboards, y, n, enter, enter.
It played a merry little, musty little tune, fuelled by caffeinated pseudo-zest. While the homeless veiled theres in hessian, _ _ decided to don his discomfort. He wore it smartly, detachedly, non-chalontly, in the form of a suit and tie.

The chargreyed pigeons he had to pass through during his smog rise journey to the smokestack where he worked, pecked all the way merrily through, his half hearted attempts to thwack them with his rolled up financial review.
And, if the crossing was red he wouldn’t budge. Respectful to the light ordering him to stay safe. He stood stoic, a beacon of conservatism in the gutter while the others jaywalked.

And the sweet and lo that gave him heart palpitations.
In the loveless prison he had learnt to call a home.

There goes my bayybeeee.........

:b

my ass is numb

smack my bitch up, sleep dont weep.

Sea-legged qualms and rotten butterflies in my gulliver. You’ve ignited my thoughts but ignore to tend to the flame. So I lie here, flopped here, wasted here,
socked and smouldering in ruins of dust and shadow.

(yiz palms are sweaty, absence of moms spasghetti).

Would like to put a jar over it all, of it, covered.
'Til the last breath is no more, spent.

So you’ll put a scarf around my neck
and call it a day.
And I’ll be here as usual sweeping up the ashes.
So I guess I’m gonna have to call it a day.

smells like hsc english. smells like you. smells like the metallic dust of a war medal.

I don’t know how it can be achieved. A permanent residency here. Where is the value located?

I buy a travel ten, enough for ten bus trips. Though that is my entry fee from which I can board the bus I wonder, where does the worth reside? Is the ticket of value because of the bus trip, or, is the bus trip of value because of the ticket?

If meaning is always deferred then to where does it all trickle down? Is there somewhere a field of an ultimate meaning waiting to be ploughed? A bog muddied by letters and digits, within which diamonds are interspersed, the glimmers to be excavated out of the rough?

I hardly think so. The ideal of an ultimate to which we aspire is a concept elusive, and pursued only in a bout of self delusion and vanity, an ultimate incomprehensibility which is therefore meaningless.

Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity - distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless
-Douglas Adams

Does every particle of a minute, every minute sliver of gold dust and beetle juice, every crimson drop of every passionate pang of a heart stain, every feeling torn from the ducts of a creased eyelid (your salty water that stained the pillowcase as you lay there)
Does it all pool somewhere? Is this effervescent source seemingly dormant only because of its veneer of invisibility?
No, it is all just absorbed and entrapped into the coarse and amnesic fabric of time.

Every word uttered, and sighed, from you to eternity. The papers shuffled, the papers scrunched. Bodies moving together with sanguine vivacity. Only to be torn apart as fodder for the endless procession of worms.
As the tides ebb, and the crescent moon smiles, then swells, then reverses.

-All these moments will be lost in time like tears in the rain
Everything passes, everything perishes, everything palls

I will do my best to love you, and to make everyone’s flight as comfortable as possible. An iota at a time the second hand has landed.

“Full fathom five thy father lies.”

And although every breath expires I can repose trust on my intentions that another will follow. To your destination in particular.