heads are aching

from the consumption (today) of tens of thousands of words and the strain of memory, as i try to imagine a bikini last worn in Newport the year before i was born. i am expecting calls and recovering from falls, sick to death of commas and gerunds. but all this is besides the point.

the point is that Iggy is singing to me again, and earlier today i read first-hand accounts of how seductive his sound. it was hard to make out the poetry through the handwriting, but i remember the romance of the dance floor. i remember the delightful dread of anticipation and the insipid musing of masochism. i remember cold nights in Gainesville, when the full-moon madness of Kerouac mixed with portraits of Oscar Wilde. i remember -

it was hard to make out the poetry through the handwriting,
because the poetry was never there.