The necropolis of the living room seperates us like an indomitable channel of water,
Choppy black and hungry,
Its fullof preventative measures,
It eats love like an angry norse god,
IT fills up the space between us invisibly,
Like mute mime figures we struggle to speak eachothers language,
the charade is the most blackly humorous thing ever,
it smiles at me in my mind like a relative long dead who hated me for no apparent reason,
maybe it was my youth,
I purchase my happiness on an unreliable black market,
Or let us call it the grey market,
It makes no matter because here everything is half rotten and more dead than alive,
the people here move like ganglia through a healthy human body,
the proliferation of themselves there only mission,
I grow weary of all this,
no wonder i'm not myself,
nothing else is what it is either,
and neither are you,
Love is always conditional,
Never let someone tell you otherwise,
This factotum can tell the story of many conditional loves,
All there is , is a background of flamenco dancers in my mind now,
Your all gone at least for now,
if any of you can write say something.
Stop hiding.
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Submission Name: Day of tree shadows and doubtful intentions
