Nancy pins them to the glass:
ROARING BOY #1 is skinny and pure as the bitter white heel of a petal. Spent lupins could describe his sense of his mind as a great dusky silky mass. Yet a feeling of being followed had taken his will away. In an age of repudiation he wouls exude sullen indolence and reveal his lace. He could be said to profoundly resent his inability to conrol his desire for an impenitent extrovert. When he closes his eyes he asks: Shall I be sold up? Am I to become a beggar? Shall I take to flight? He is skinny and pure as a calling.
he is skinny and pure as a calling. (his dusky eyes keep pulling me back to his bed in a cycle of multiplicities; he radiates reluctant anger and juts his lips on command, well-versed in taut reenactments. destruction in reverse through the curving lens of a pixelated plastic permutation; all the ways we intertwine to contradict our solitudes; how to compress the air that holds us so firmly apart and upright and over and over it's the same story - is this all we are? warmth in the dark. let me show you my heartbeat / yr breath on my hair / a hint of guilt in the way we slam doors and stumble down rusty stairs of retribution in the morning.)
ROARING BOY #2, boy with the volute heart of a girl, names the faithless toss of an abandoned guess exactitude. He gives his thought with the sinuous rigour of a cut silk garment, lives looking at the sky, waiting for the specificity of a pleasure whose deferral is underwritten by a constriction of memory, the violent stammering of a repressed structure. The planes of his face point to the exquisitely even surface of a late antique life. He has begun by setting aside holy dread. Deferral is his darling.
deferral is his darling. the scent of coffee curling in the air like a song, and he's scribbling / he's waiting / he's recomposing his projections with fingers wrapped tight around my wrist to feign some closure. & he says he only believes in spontaneity & he only believes in chance revelations, but i'm pretty sure he cribbed it all from some hollywood script, darkened theater, dilated pupils, heart racing, scribbling / waiting / recomposing in sharpie on his forearm.
ROARING BOY #3, rather than submitting to the trial of action, wants deeply to possess an opinion, then having possessed, to distribute it with maximum efficiency. Since the spectacle of luxury pleases him in others, he embarks on a gradual (to the point of imperceptibility) inflation of his own verbal style, and a concurrent, almost compensatory, deflation of his person. He is both febrile and decorous: a foolish hooligan of sardonic emphasis.
he is both febrile and decorous: a foolish hooligan of sardonic emphasis. he chews glass just so he can bleed on my tablecloth & flash a toothy red grin. he is in search of nothing and everything, and his every glance feels like a neat construction of redistributed keyboard solos. our masochistic malleabilities; our careful collisions of circumvential derision, again and again. this pretense of indifference and these dangerous games of turquoise revenge. dead batteries are a tragedy of historic proportions.
XEclogue, by Lisa Robertson.
(italics are hers. not is mine.)
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