Zippo Oil

I like complicated symbolistic conversations that can mean ten thousand billion different things at once, allowing you of course to adopt the worst – possible or not – outcome. Allowing you to turn it into a certainty which opposes as a reverse duty on some delicate shoulders – it is, you see, the antithesis of one such amorphous weight with no definite mass center against the slim amenity of the porter which reminds us that the slim and the sweet can cut with mellow and delicate words an amorphous mass of any density, drowning this way into the gray and frizzled out stains of blood. And allowing the worst outcome, the certainty, the symbolism, the complexity, the haze, the noise, the memories, the memories, the memories and of course – I sure hope – the end punctuation periods.

I like lighting fires among my palms at night. I hope one day you will do it, I mean I might even know you will. Perhaps the palms will be just the clichéd beginning of the end. Or perhaps they once were the beginning in some parallel future where the lines of life and paradox intertwine under large arches and tall soviet communication towers. Or maybe on the other hand, the fire the right hand lights up only hassles the way towards the shut eyelids, fifteen something hours from the trashy train station of Lo Stivale’s old capital. In any event, we will learn, I will learn, there will exist something between the singular and the plural to remind of the truth regardless of any ominous space-time facts, away from the end of threads that lead to rusty lockjaw infected tissue. Because at the end of the day, let me tell you, even we can create sardonic smiles and postmortem fevers, we as in you and I, that in between thing, one hour from you and another three from me. Yes, we split it right, this in between thing.

I like white filters, bitterness, the cold, old fashioned coats and Victorian scarves – the kind princess Wilhelmina wore to hide her scars. But you don’t hide yours, I think you plume them. I like little ponds on dirty pavements and the common domain of every serene and terminal desolation which leaves burns but not scars. Then we can drop the Victorian scarves while I keep my common black scarf along. That will keep the burns warm until I find the jerrycan and throw in it the last Davidoff I lit up with my last match with which I lit up the last fire among my two palms – yet it’s enough: three periods are always a good sign, even when they don’t come in an ellipsis.

P.S. Back to the old continent… (yes, the three periods here come in an ellipsis)


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