| Mood:- |
free |
| Music:- |
!!! - There\'s No Fucking Rules, Dude |
A blank office, a clipboard of sharp clean paper... the light in the rectangles above trickles over my forehead in shiny little squares, geometric and white. It is busy here, filled with traveling voices and the tap-tap-tap of shoes on stairs and carpets. The stained glass eyes stare out from berry-blood sockets, aristocratic and pretty; below them a long grey tongue descends in steps and pools out across the interrupted footspace. The bodies enter and exit, content but full of rain, exchanging brief greetings with whomever looks through the glass to speak. I can barely feel my frozen toes in their canvas sacks as I breathe in the cycled air that circumvents my heavy heart, clasping and unclasping my sweaty palms.
I was thinking about the holes in your socks as I disappeared into the fabric of the passenger seat, and it almost made me smile.
This week is sucking up eternities trying to begin, leaving me senselessly little and yet horribly fat with bursting phrases. Will the seams holding together the blanket-hush of clocks snap and collapse like unstable haystacks? Will time topple and crash, a car wreck? I can see the twisted metal carving lines into the landscape of formal silken flesh and I feel so impatient. I wonder if the genuity of the tragic hero's tale has been replaced by the useless sophisticated sound of your unhappy laughter. What has become of song? Oh, I am lost in this sudden mind-trap. It is isolate here, between crowded dialects and desks and balloon hearts floating invisibly up. I hear each one pop, pop, pop... bombs of disappointment exploding in my pulsing chest; I run and run and run, thoughts slipping and tripping through the cold wet world as I chase your outline home. Every moment melts together like some ugly volcanic rock forged in fire... they blacken into one as you fall out of my hands, as my torso scrapes some windy attic floor, tossed like a threadbare ragdoll into this realm of nerves and night.
The chalk-blood of snowmen covers the lawn-boxes like a papery rust. It powders my jacket with the residue of murder as I stand silent and still at the top of the treacherous stairs. I could take one step... a slip of the sneaker and my sad spine could snap in half, and my grave, too, would be covered in a coat of ash.
Each slow cerulean drip curves over the desert of tarnished skin, journeying a path to the caverns of a chin. This wound is a movie, and I see the girl with three knives in her face, bleeding blue as if made of tears. Those lines arc down, down; she's picture-perfect colorless but for a bite of angry sapphire; a self-mirror, gorgeously destroyed.
Will I let you die? Will I let you vanish like an icicle in March? I will pursue your memory down that dark, long street until my brittle bones break, until I lay prone, demolished in the empty universe under that lonely streetlamp. I will clutch your body and cry. |
