Resipiscence Lost

Coetzee's always a timely way to get to somewhere forgiving of every human indiscretion, rendering from the fat of lust its rightful glorification, a sardonic contempt held for anything that admits anything not meant just for us, just us, and all the time no matter how a bullet chips the bone in our elbow, the wrist bruised from words too often pounded without purpose. Our rally declares itself in regret recanted: it was all in the happy morning light for the best reasons and there is never a reason to mourn.

I saw her beating the Coetzee out of me, in her casual reflections, vitiating me in her idyll, with as careless a word as "okay," the belief held in pantheistic truths, where a sad slash of light reveals an Aleph acting as prism to all. All she had to do was remind me that I travelled, once

From Saskatoon to Kent, hence to Capetown, repeated thrice, dates remembered in a book tossed in the suitcase that brought me to both. With a sighing "okay," I'm reminded that

Landing back to a land once rebuked as all hick, preempted from a scrutiny that could be called it since the bias had set, reminding me

That forever lasts just that for me whenever staring at myself in the smalls and looking for the thing that makes me me without shame; that nothing that she ever did, any "she", moon or whoring bottle, ever did take a thing away from me that I didn't give back, dour pill, swallowed together, taking us where we thought we could never belong but always had.

All wrong: the one wilting scene thirsting for a bit of futurism, a daub of water to quench the disdain for a present that refuses to die in progressive images of geraniums....geraniums...strange flora....blossoming...proved a truth dust envies, and

That 

Right, that the little boy teasing a bug with the pad of his forefinger, trying to align the insensate creature's movement to his own, seeing where they differ and why; and as soon a dog whipped, a man murdered, a world poisoned, as stop trying to learn that

Spitting in the sun's as profitable as a billion hard cash bulging pocket and balls, each momentous in the mind, and there--forever lasts just that--disproving a truth dust envies. 

Telling her that when the geraniums flounder, petalled seals bashed by shore and man; and the whole of the raucous world utters a groan from incipient lust; and there was a reason never to have one though all of you was told to tell you there was, 

I counted you. I counted and, life paraboling, I counted again.