Mass Romantics

No one loves you in winter? In the parlance of the nineteen-fifties, no one dates. We cross calendars, seek comments, lock in patterns, narrowcast to our narrow castes.

If you've never been worth the words, the glue and scissors, my time when you're not around — well, what hours are you counting down? You're on the lost list. I had to replace my little black book. I'll recreate that list, but I can't recapture the kissed. Time being, I've got one.

One, and we're talking mass romantics and Internet semantics. We're illicit but complicit, maybe a little horrific. Horrifically cute, though. Oh, you.

And then I don't like you at all. I feel as baited as ever and can't touch my thoughts. It's sending me on an existential trip until I can't remember why I went. You're breaking all the chemical bonds that tie us to ourselves. You're dropping oil in water and shaking and shaking. I can't bear being a macaroni noodle, but half of a whole. You've come by me and tried to combine me.

Last night, this morning, I want something like sound. I turn on the radio and women cry. There are cities dying like no one you've ever known to die. Is there a moment of peace before an explosion? Don't they deserve it? They, and their sons and daughters with them.

I can't know why this happens. I sympathize for everyone on all sides until I cry too. You don't know that this happens. They were sleeping, waiting for the power to come on so they could study for their exams. You're tracing dark loops through glaring commercial zones. You should be learning. You are dying.

Good morning Britain, because you run summer time and I stay up late in summertime, late into winter and late to the year. I'll tune to where it's already tomorrow. BBC, you're there and I'm not. I'm not through with this year. I'm not even really ready to hear. But when I touch the antenna you polarize all the static between my cells.