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Does the secret to beauty lie in an irrational mathematical constant?
Does the secret to beauty lie in an irrational mathematical constant?
Does the secret to beauty lie in an irrational mathematical constant?

the whole is the longer part plus the shorter part;
the whole is to the longer part as the longer part is to the shorter part.

POOR SHAPE VOLUME 2

COMINGSOONCOMINGSOON

COMING SOON

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i am so compulsively smearing eyeshadow on my cheeks 11:20 pm.

i am screaming along pop songs bedrooms with seven strangers, 1:15 am.

i am under a bridge lighting a fire with my best friend, talking about mass dissapointment, 2:45 am.

home, 5:06.

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pharmacute.

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RESEARCH YR CHARACTER (FOR THE MESH-WORN AND HOPE-LESS [SEPERATE FOREVER])

THE DESPERATELY AVERAGE AND THE OVERLY MEDIOCRE, pleading and slinking a noticably wide line pushing to be ahead by a hair AND IT STOPPED BEING ABOUT SUPERIORITY A LONG TIME AGO. please do not stop smoking for us, all long-time lovers of the rearview mirror. we held on so fucking tightly to those things we loved when we were younger, we loved everything so much with all our stunting growth! I AM TRYING TO TELL YOU ABOUT A PROMISE THAT IS SO VERY SECRET AND SO VERY REAL, and it's inside of all of us all everywhere, but the funny thing is that thing so many people say, that phrase, you know? that one about 'promises break all the time, no big deal ok.' keeping true has become frowned upon and frightening, these definitions fogging-up and floating thru our bedroom doors at nite? all ex-great forgetters of our time, absorbed in that big deep fucking pit of all of those lyrics you would sing under yr breath and all of those secrets worries and sad times there is that GREAT THING right there, it's like the feeling you get when you see a pretty faced girl and for whatever reason you are in conversation with her and that terrible phrase makes its way thru yr lips, and no, she can't say she reads much, there's just not enough time in the day, never been much of a reader. well, yeah, i mean, i go to art school, sure, and i am an actively participating member of the house-gallery scene, but i don't understand why people are spending all their time making stuff? why create when the goal is to participate? making a scene! the premiere flaw of us choked-up and suddenly hung. gasp. so it's as if there is some great secret here, i mean, the price-tags dangle on people so very proudly and that is a pretty fantastic thing it it's own right, but where is the direction? THIS IS NOT ABOUT SUPERIORITY, THIS IS ABOUT SOUL-SEARCHING AND SELF-TRUTH. so very many faces tinted pink with sunscreen. so pretty with white-washed walls. WHY DO I THINK THIS WAY? is there some sort-of long-lasting high-school resentment still stuffed away, feeling like the preps and jocks are now in streetwear and cut-off shorts? 100% brushed cotton, pastels, high-heels. extreme is so fucking mainstream. I TOTALLY AM NOT PINPOINTING YOU. this is not a fingerpoint song, i am reading people like pamphlets on mental health. there were times when the edge, fuck, that edge was supposed to be really sharp and sharp simple things were put on priority, now every poor kid owns 100000 pairs of shoes and funny bow-ties. our third attempt was half-hearted and barely-heated and defeated and holding our lover's hand was like grasping death's cape and promising tomorrow is going to be ok was easy enough, over the phone, over a short-talk of days spent (our versions different). now all sleeping in tanktops beside lazied lovers, changing channels appropriately and praying DEATH BEFORE REDUNDANCY.

YOUR POINTS ARE FORGETTABLY LOST, but all agendas must recieve appropriate tending to. we use all our muscles to keep from drowning, whether we want to or not. alienation breeds fear or maybe it's vice versa or situation-based, but they both breed contempt and confusion and if yr demons are banging at the heart-gates always, relentlessly, don't do it with yr voice! EVERYBODY HAS ONE, even if they have just a few scattered words. STAY RARE IN A HYPERCOMMON CULTURE. it's a no-pride no-shame no-luck no-fame no-love no-life no-hope no-harm no-fun no-friends no-time no-trail no-bother no-better no-reach no-response no-faith no-trace no-yawn no-win no-cash no-fashion no-future no-body no-thing environment, so you better write something down and use yr fists. ALL THINGS EXPIRE, pounding furious letters of fleeting love on keypads citywide.

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CRAFTING DECENCY DESPERATE MEASURES FRESH START WITH RUSTED LIMBS AND COMPULSIVE ADULATION FUCKED CANT NOT WONT NEVER SAID I COULD DO BETTER BUT I BELIEVED IT ROMANTICIZED MONOLOGUES AND SELF MOTIVATIONAL SPEECHES PLAYED ON SILVER SCREENS SCRATCHED ON WALLS

SAME SUN SAME MARKS SAME BURNS SAME HEADACHE SAME SWEAT SAME SQUINT SMUDGED MAKEUP SOGGY BANGS BLOODSHOT EYES UNDER SQUINTED LIDS DRY MOUTH MUGGY LUNGS CHAPPED LIPS CRACKED SKIN

YOU WOULDNT EVEN BELIEVE IT

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and a platform for getting your point across. or maybe exhibitionist tendancies? slowly becoming more influenced by your surroundings. closing parallels. classical depictions of the state of being in love. tossing your hands up to the substance-abuse chorus. draped unappealingly. a dexterity that would make a magician timid. pointing out perfect examples of fraud. a delirious pulsing of post-teen productivity. forgetting certain people i knew about once, they were not very good for my health. they made my eyes dark. craving that sort of physical approval. learn to burn those bridges while they still are warm to the touch. some actions need no reason. the terror whistles through the workplace. those things we needed long ago. streak of glossy pigment. embankments littered with psychic vampires. having expectations of no tomorrow or no future, the world has given them everything in their hands. no choice but to adapt. this party is a pretense. pretty princess treated better, gets a bit bitter about the best you have to give. buried under supposed new big hits in the scene. they are the new people to know, they are the better dressed and looking, thank you mom and dad. thank you everybody who believe in me. thank you, memory screen. total fear of total honesty. character asassination. marked with a sneer at a table for two. lines littered with all of these days, documented. to a tee. too many extra people in these places. the performance too over the top. sitting 'cross, pouring souls and probably feeling a bit better. admiring how much healthier you were two years ago. it left my head. remember steps, remember gaps mean precision and discernment for the sake of all present affairs. small steps. a small pair of shorts make you feel funny. open toed sandals and sundress, i am sorry for being unsure of conversation. a solo venture. surely, we all change sometime? eyes shift across the room. fifteen hands grasping cellphones. thank god for the future. we want to be like you! we want to be all knowing always! we want to know ourselves in frail gestures emphasizing true admiration and inferiority complex! cowardice with an ample chest! fear in distressed denim! house party bathrooms, everybody notices! these things, these good friends in good places! misery with a modest income! one labelled 'champion,' one labelled 'star.' praises flutter above assembled heads. barricaded behind slang and balconies! a great design, slightly flawed! of proof of possibility! subject of interest only to those less interesting. natural response to uncertainty posed by meek moral rationalism. you walk home in the rain because it feels fantastic. wild-eyed and usual rhymes. mechanically searching for those words again. some response. a real winner. finished just fine. deliberating over a phone call, seems unimportant now so i might as well forget about it. where would we go, anyways? real mad, authentically mad at each other. i'd never tell you where i've been, terribly blue-tinged. struggled through a few neighborhoods, gaining familiarity, furthering disconnect. worries can go away, but they might still call you a bit too late at night. my one true faith. a preferred difference in time zone. those ones who i've sheltered are the ones that i blame. staying true to something secret. i have to do something. shouting at the top of my lungs in a public place. something good is bound to happen. i feel it, everytime i bike to work. what do i feel like lacking today? snooze button slammed down four times on a tuesday. for our first born, the world. personal stories of a bad time that we had. it could have been worse. it was pretty bad, though. my conclusion? the known just as well answer you better. routinely reassuring in ellipses and second-hand prowess. putting something into existence though we know that it may not be a one hundred percent thought about thing. but we thought about it? must have. it was thrust into existence whether it wanted to or not, a sudden too familiar and split. too slow. it's the people who run off that i like the most. wonder what we do wrong to the other. bad hair, bad clothes, crackling in protest with every joint in melodic spinal symphonies. american made, well built. sometimes. sway in the sunlight, fell to knees, queen street east. we're not safe. thighs grazing hands tense. our shining. foul tricks in the same shoes. two sets of dining wear and i scan around for more. unfamiliar to your lips cigarettes residing in your coffee cups and sink. listening only to subtext. i am here. not anymore. i felt a surge of contentment. i ran where? followed who? it seemed like a good idea at the time. i was in a bad place. i will pay for this forever. it may be out of my hands. defeated by the future in a few fell swoops. a slight flaw in foresight. clapping in approval. words get back around. wouldn't you? i feel nowhere is that sort of feeling. undefined in our love. the sort of joke i laugh at. where are these wounds you speak so frequently of? unseen in glistening teeth, not apparent in a sidestep and stop for the streetcar, kiss me quickly. folded up napkins stuffed in your sneakers, staving off blisters. been streched out on a beach, celebrating the birth of need. high fived. sealing it with a promise of banknotes. you always can get what you want, at least for a short period of time. yours or mine? fists dedicated to expressive charm. quick sucession of textbook truths. i'm not that kind of person, you would say, you are waiting with a book in a very quaint place, the sort of place you would find very pleasant. somehow i don't really get it. we go a bit too slow, but it feels so right: a profound surprise. missed call mysterious number turns stomaches, right? scratch that itch in the west end. the same way we do things, same way of waiting. the which one is the weaker, once in a while.

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stand -------- apart, mostly
silent space head tilt giggles
making light and making plans
hips swing into streets and turn
back, one or two stacato lip
presses of reassurance

holding out for something that
smells like sweat-tinged summer
shirts.

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YOU
ONLY
DIE
ONCE