Mrs. Porter

Mrs. Porter
I feel like crying. And bicycle chains are all that I have to cry to. I can rush to the street where my motorcycle lay docile and let it save me, but I wait, wait for a resolve that I feel never comes with fallen drips of oil and car horns playing a tune of frustration.
Where she would be there is nothing. Where I am there is nothing. And where we are there is everything.
(She upon the streets lays waste to the rhythmical patterns of car tires that we all hear in countless moments in the morning. Coffee stirs and bellows to an air pounding out of machines. Books open and close and pages flip to the hope of escapism that people lust to gain when surrounded by everything, everything that breathes, everything that is anthropomorphized to give us a sense of belonging, a sense there is something more. ("All life has the same root"). She, for all the pebbles that fling under crowds of people and squeaks of brakes to a tempered beat, is lost waiting for a resolve.)
(I, sitting wondering dreaming and living. I under a blanket of cold wind and above a world of grated ground sit and think of the girl and think of her sitting thinking of me above a world of pavement and under an effluvium of gas. The Harley's engine roars and the pain of timed halogen street lamps blink. I sit high above everyone and MGD accompanies me in a laughter of solitude where friends pass and go unnoticed.)
Mrs. Porter walks below
and I have become the city
molding her ways
taking solace in my wine and watching planes fly to something better.
Something worse.
She has become idealization and as I sit god like and fucked with knowledge I listen to only sirens and car accidents mixed with smells of oceanmonoxide and sights of falsely lit leaves that cling to their branches because they know no other. No better. I can't and will not cast off the cast of bicycle bells and combined conversation that is lost in numbers, which in all its ambiguity becomes life. We follow it. Though it's negative and has a rhythm of a dying crescendo, where syllables are cut off as if half mute and unutterable. Talk dies and the voices die with them.
Mrs. Porter consumes me and I have become as she would be...
without her.
This is why I have the courage to continue. Distant phone rings and "hellos" to accompany them, open windows with smiles to accompany them. Gleaming metal with the sun to accompany them. Where these sights and sounds are, I am. She is lost only in my mind but she’s whole with sounds of city birds waiting for crumbs and bass booming stereos waiting for stares. Wine. Klinks of glasses. I idealize.
Mrs. Porter I love her, and I cling to that thought everyday
amongst horns
and brake squeaks
and bicycle chains
and Harley engines
and coffee grinders.
I miss her. When is she coming back? When will she be here? I long for something that strays from that inanimate that speaks the sounds of tongue. I long for her Mrs. Porter and when she comes I hope...
I hope you'll like her.