Hellogoodbye the Band
There is an opening up of a wet still frame of two kids thawing on a porch outside of an abandoned house where the sunlight is tongues and pinnatisect leaves drip comfortably slow onto the puddle of too-early morning. Architects and mathematicians finally having designed two human shapes that overfit, four sinewy lianas for legs and this oscillatory recurrence of penumbra assembled in splanchopleuric mesodermless misadventure.
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We will get mostly through this homecoming dressed in flea market found costumes, and you will be genius, and I will be what I pretend to be by autumn’s curtain. In ruffled homeless sheets, I will feel totally drowned holding you down by warmly shivering wings, peeling the freckles from your eyelets who find that I have lips and fingers too, that my ribs are full of unopened girls. But did you know that your ribs are all small deaths, and that I count each ephem'd sliver like weeks to a shoreline vacation, that there is literally such a place to be full of mattresses where night starplush looks ripe and spooky, that where I can kiss you inside, on each heart mournfully, that I will feel insane and drunk watching Bam Margera get married on a Sunday couch, but that can you imagine how beautiful our grandparents would be if we got married?
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Yet, the hotel still seems overbooked, so we will be not quite adults again.
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We will wander instead vastly through dollar stores plucking salmon carnations and moon mist. I will lettuce be glued to a coffin like monsters for two weeks straight and intentionally overlook you in the eyes and inhale gingerbread and her and cigarettes so much. Kylling elendige keeaela. Like, wanting to be bound and self-ceaseless in some far tangle of your neural formity for a forecast beyond graphic novels.
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But no, now to sit like a koala with a fox hat in my arms reading a small green book, and to note the resolution of somehow shared toothpaste slipping from my hair. I am an alumnus asking you to stand upon parking spot. I am an expert backup dancer failing at names or stealing shots with you. I am a drunk boy ex post liaison making sure you don’t fall on the wrong cement. Am I making the right mistakes? I am painting four pieces of the sky and comparing flavors. I am a dolt eating grilled chicken sandwiches on your dime while slipping secret notes about Jackson Pollock written on sugar packets. I am one year old. Come home! This Halloween, I am the skeleton unfortunately whereas you are the slow motion runaway model. Whatever went away, I’ll get it over now.