"Cadaver Me, Cadaver You"

Friday night, where are you?  I’m lonely again.  I want to drink myself to non-memory.  I want to find an anonymous boy to get under my shirt.  “I don’t make a habit of this, by the way,” I would explain.  “It’s just a phase I’m going through,” I’d reassure him (or rather, myself) as we made our way to the graveyard.  I want to feel spiritual and sordid at once.  (It was only a few months ago that I rolled my eyes at the cliché of necropolis sex.)   I want to slaughter that corpse-like core of mine, to flick away my corrugated seed-shell so that I can be devoid of an essence.  I want to learn about nonduality in the physical sense, to purge the world of its duhkha and thereby assuage my own suffering.  We could be empty and open together.  We could breakdown all preconceived boundaries and become mirror-like, reflecting one another, becoming one another, learning what it means to exist without horizons.  This is what I mean when I say we should live intersubjectively. 

Most of all, I want to be touched without thinking of you.  I want to realize my Buddha-nature and stop clinging to the hope of a future, because those fucking daydreams are precisely what cultivate a disconnect with my present world.  But I can see myself now, becoming intimate with the grass and soil, thinking how close the stars look, (because the sky is really just a dome-shaped building,) and wondering why I haven’t bothered to memorize the names of all the constellations.  I would absorb all of this, and know that the boy unraveling my skin couldn’t begin to understand what I meant by any of these abstractions, and so I’d stop him and make him tell me what he was passionate about.  (“And don’t give me some bullshit like economics, because I don’t believe that anyone can really see the lyricism in any of that.”)  I’d scare him with my questions: he thought that I was a pliant tree branch and this was just facile, Friday night fucking.  He overlooked the part about me wanting to really know someone.  I’d whisper something about being hung-up on another guy, and say, “Isn’t this like a Beatles song?  Or no, maybe it’s Bob Dylan.  God, why can’t I think of the name right now?”  Hopefully he’d respond by asking, “Isn’t everything like a Beatles song?”  And I’d surrender, knowing that he was right, and later realize I was thinking of the lyrics to “You won’t see me.”  (“Time after time, you refuse to even listen.  I wouldn’t mind if I knew what I was missing.”)

This is stupid.  I wish someone would just love me for a few hours in an isolated cemetery and then leave me for dead with the rest of the brittle skeletons and disintegrating cadavers.