i smell dangerous. not that kind of radical danger you get from being truly alive, but the kind that lurks around corners, waiting in surprise attack to take everything that is beautiful and important to you. the kind tainted by sewers and dumpsters and inhuman acts and old ladies' closets. if you run around in this life like that you're bound to pick up a foul odor or two. they still haven't made it so that you come out smelling rose- or clean-towel-fresh. even if you sit still and try to do nothing, good or bad, you end up smelling like old socks. no, you have to do something. fresh, and alive, and clean, in the right location. somewhere bright where people like me don't rub off on you. of course, they keep the doors to this place locked up very tight. if they let too many people in, it starts to smell because of them. not very good. and clean, smart, beautiful people have to have their space to do their special thing. the thing that starts inside all of us until we start picking up the danger. if i keep writing, will i smell Chanel? i doubt it. they who are clean and smart and beautiful will collect me from my pretty path and spray me with their net offal. after all, they're exposed to it, too. they just know better what to do with it. so, my beauty dies and i no longer smell Dangerous. i don't smell. and that means no one can find me to notice me. i might as well have died, but they are not that kind, so I keep running around, invisible, until i smell dangerous. 7:44 AM 3/25/2015
0 comments:
Post a Comment