Jonesing That Comes at the End of Desire?

Weird lull, yes? no something so o my fucking god you'll forget day after tomorrow for the next o my fucking god in what, 48 hours? jonesing

I had cause to think of one of my all-time favorite albums and this, one of my favorite songs ever, maybe my favorite tripping my brains out song ever (I'm game, yo, turn me on, dead man)

 

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BETWEEN HERE & THERE

Dana Ward

I.

 

Let me speak with expressive

 

hesitation & a feeling for

 

interment why even

 

lineate what isn’t broken by

 

music let me speak with

 

inextricable reluctance.

 

I want to tear the heart

 

from refused convalescence

 

& feed it those long fronds

 

of river bed grass. I want to

 

tear the heart out of style

 

& put it between

 

utter thrall & the infancy

 

of all things impure.

 

Torn out, a flame thickens

 

between us as if

 

not right now we’ll be

 

ripped from this life

 

or each other a white

 

lie not a little more tender

 

than quick. Inextricable

 

reluctance to die or even

 

leave youth culture ever.

 

What a stupid feeling.

 

Do you think it isn’t

 

true? The very existence

 

of flame throwers proves

 

that sometime, somewhere,

 

someone said to themselves

 

‘You know I want to

 

set those people over there

 

on fire but I’m just not

 

close enough to get the

 

job done.’ Someone

 

puts their arms around you

 

in the cold. There’s an al-

 

most disquieting closeness

 

as gossamer clots &

 

becomes an impasto derivative

 

of some newly visible

 

interdependence. Flame

 

throwers then are just

 

a description of prevailing

 

ideology, relics, the life

 

of the party, a soul

 

flirts by burning

 

that name for itself

 

up in jonesing that comes

 

at the end of desire?

 

Well I wouldn’t know

 

about that. A little

 

goat. Why would it

 

nuzzle dreamily up

 

the way I nuzzle dreamily

 

up to my knees. In the

 

‘fatal position’ as my

 

nephew used to call it

 

estranged from play

 

waiting on the fox hunt.

 

Oh baby

 

it beats up my lips

 

the somatic effects

 

of contriving a psychic

 

blockade against death

 

with the contours of your

 

face & healing

 

in constant eclipse

 

where all things

 

inextricably broken by

 

music make the basic

 

rhythmic unit go

 

something like this — I

 

don’t want to loose you. I

 

don’t want to be

 

empty, clever hold &

 

keep you. I was lost

 

to you to start with still

 

I keep on coming back.

 

Do you think you’ll

 

keep on coming back to me

 

forever? That’s the meaning

 

of our life together

 

baby.