Identity and Noise

October 17th, 2015

Crossfire, double dire, I will be something you never guess. Imma appropriate your cultural habits, your material habitat. I will dance so , that your wife starts doubting your marital vows. Imma seduce your husband, Imma offer you a chance. You practise in manufacturing monsters I have to find home for. If only because they become the bringers of the lights, the Lucifers to the gods you pray to.
My god is a water. It dissolves the paint I paint your kitchen with, it dissolves the pain I get paid back with. I gonna be the best worker you had. I will plan the revolution, that’ll leave you houseless – that might gift you a home. Free. If you manage to suffer through.
I will be a liar at night, so you will give me shelter – you’re conscientious, right? I will wear the portraits of the men you despise on my chest, and the men you worship – down. I will sell you anything, just to be in your pockets – I can strike the lowest there.
When you’ll want to know my name, I’ll hand a card, that will change the second you’ll think of remembering it. Imma follow all your rules, so you keep me in high esteem, and then break them, thus making a hole in your understanding trust.
On saturday evenings I’ll become an existential terrorist, so you can’t relax enough to forget. And you won’t. You’ve forgotten much already.
I will not know who I am, nor who I want to be. I will be anything and nothing you want me to be. I’ll jog by your side, I’ll play tennis with you. We will talk about our jobs and beer and how your guts can’t take no more tomatoes. I’ll smile with the most honest smile there was. Then I will frown, my eyes dark and red.
You’ll be my guest and I will take care of you, then you’ll become unsettled, for I won’t answer or return your calls, won’t shake your hand at the grocery store.
I never knew who I was, why should you? I’ll be bad, I’ll be good, I’ll be joyous and sad. I’ll be the worst rhymer, the mediocre poet, the master of pose.
I’ll be a father, a son, a husband you want. I’ll be motherless, childless and alone.
When you’ll ask where I live, I will take you to the place the stars kiss the soil there. I’ll be gone. You won’t know the way back, the way forward. You can become the stars, the soil. Or the kiss. I won’t know.
I will never be something you want me to be, I will be nothing, that I know. Before that, though, I’ll be rude, obnoxious, cheap and absent minded. Dumb minded. Smart ass minded.
Whenever you will try to tell me apart, I’ll be another hole. I will lick it, suck it, as long as you get pleased with your pin downs. I don’t mind you being happy or satisfied, as I won’t mind your despair or your pain.
There will be a time the sun heats the sand, and I am naked and your hand naked on my naked belly, mine under your naked ass. That time can be said to be a time when I will suspend your disbelief and all’ll be calm, in its predestined place. I don’t have no problems being something neither I nor you or anyone else has or will ever be.
And when I’ll insist on making no sense, you’ll have to deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that, motherfucker.
Deal with that.

(open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes open my eyes)

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