lank tangles

i strive to master the art of faking it.

 

the universe is the unfathomable wonderland, and the world is the long table around which, sprawled in high-backed cushioned seats, characters so unreal shamelessly and unrepentantly brag in revelation that the tea is exactly two days, twenty three hours and fifty minutes older than what they assured a young girl with clear blue eyes, gone off to search for the yellow brick road.

 

round and over the sea of china ants scuttle over spilled sugar darkening over stains spreading like burns on cloth. over the clanking of cups on saucers the tales are so degrading they are hilarious; shaking shoulders and pounding fists belly the internal shudder at the back of everyone's mind, and the cackles from ironically parched throats drown out the fervent pleas to never be so unfortunate as to fall on the blind side of such split second graces.

 

it is a grand banquet, an orgy of counterfeit identities, made so very exciting by its unreality. an unreality that is, and that must be for those whose will is to survive, an unreality that demands the absolute absence of being.

 

i am a spectator. my will is to learn all. and thus, i too, strive to master the art of faking it.

 

listening without process.

comfort without kinship.

come-ons without direction.

the baring of teeth.

saltwater.

 

i strive to master the art of faking it.