The Political

A room is full of people, and you know they are there. But you pretend like you are talking to yourself, but we all know you are talking to presences and shadows. There is an inkling of comfort because it seems like they are all your friends, but your comfort at being a theatre of tumultuous performance is uncomfortable to us. That you learned to talk so well, prefacing six threads at the same time and proceeding at snail pace (talk about staying power!) is not a very comfortable fact. I would like to counter coherence with something the cat brought in. Pure nihilism maybe. Or like a post-punk archipelago, drifting through the Pacific. No hope, no agenda, just a "how do you do that shit?" (Minaj). In that question is packed in, the penis-envy as well as the irritant-stimuli. The complex love/hate that keeps me coming back to you.

Each sting has a venom, toxic or non; and this venom depletes. So, when you display your sting as a social sport, in-a-way sparring, as a drunk-party-game, I wonder. What has this come to? There is nothing else you can do except being yourself. And the same for me. That is what it has come to. I wouldn't ever wish that you stop doing what you do, what will happen to me then? I will have nothing to coerce my guts to puke against then. And that will be a pity.

Traces of beauty remain on your face. Even a line of starkness that I enjoy. But then this pleasure is archaeological. I see you as a linger-on from the past. A ghost whose time is past. But I get personal, pardon.

The Political is now part of my collection of vestigial odds and ends. If we both know what the shadow puppet is a shadow of then what is the point? Being critical is a recursive process, which includes you. It cannot stop at your door-step like the milkman, newspaper-boy and odd stranger.

Minaj: Right Thru You, Pink Friday, Nicki Minaj.