LOVE LETTER for Shia

by Jos Charles

I was always impressed by that motherfucker Dante’s hell, I mean, the sonofabitch names names.

I speak Shia Labeouf and the work collapses in on itself in concreteness.

I’ve been reading about the timelessness of art lately and wondering when the earth is gonna die and what composition means in the face of it.

Worldhood is a concept and it’s ending along with any hope of approach and I don’t know the difference between survival and living.

Woody Allen in that Fellini knock off says something about when survival is assumed that level of desire gets invested into increasingly abstract and discrete events like ‘falling in love’.

Woody Allen is a privileged ass piece of shit and he can rot in hell.

Hard to render what means ‘occasion.’ Harder still ‘event’ though many of today’s youngest and brightest have tried.

I am speaking something of deposits.

Things get left behind and their names dry to jerky in your wrinkling eyes.

Sure, I want you to learn to accept but mostly I want everything else to change.

I don’t know what it means to be lyric anymore.

But I’m trying, Shia, I’m really trying.

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