Doubt distracts:
A bicyclist goes by in a grimace. He has trashed the streets with garbled intimacies correlated with personal language. It doesn't matter. The matter of the street is dark and deserted: nothingness. The rider pedals without moving, trying to go forward but only finding the dark depths within him. Pools of non-light radiate in spirals that fence distorted contours, or, try to at least, because the neat angels' song is a failed prophet: the poet. But fuck him. Fuck the poet who speaks with nothing to say, eating himself out and succumbing to that natural tension that shrieks from the darkness, "Speak thou bat wing'd things, tell me who I am, who am I to speak when angels can sing". The bicyclist quantifies his soul with chic pitch-blackness. Fuck the poet. He quantifies his soul with blood and scraps of bladder. He quantifies his soul with skeleton's eyebrows. An orange goblin slinks from an alleyway and masticates the bicyclist and his bicycle.
Doubt distracts:
Fuck the poet and that damp darkness that consumes them all, like love, cigarettes, alcohol, coffee and leaves only that disembodied ictus. Now that the scene is set, who is he? Where is he? What can we do with him? Will it ever end? He is the spark of this metaphor.
