Beckett in the Flicker of a Crying Cigarette

I quit…Up in flames…I’m gone, I’m done, I’m enough…

I know things here and now that I never suspected yesterday. Another mystery stacks oddly on my head and I grieve the sunrise as I wake up to the flame dragging and winding vividly across the sky. I can’t envision a design for days, not a single one that can recognize my weariness of words and my tiredness towards time. All my dreams are fleeting across this bay, and I’ve done wrong, din wrong, and no thoughts can guide me to episodes where I was seasoned to handle the difficulty of each eventful series.

I will have hospital accounts and motorcycle diaries to walk me past the pink hemispheric dusk, and a chalky channel of proper strangers to swerve me to a place soaring higher. I will keep snapshots of my sweat and all my ravings in the dim dark. What can I do? Behold and await an amber horizon? No, I don’t have the keys for the passage through the present. There’s no tonic for nostalgia, there’s no sole liberation for memory. I will have to cope; Deal with abhorrent unoriginality and an abhorrent eternity scientifically.

Nighttime is unraveling and I am cradling in my crib, fondling my hopes. I can’t always be savoring my moments, believe me. Nighttime is unraveling and I am trapped in my truth. You catch your life and you pay the price. All the rescuing is turning me to pieces that tingle, resonances told through talking mouths, not of my own – I’ve lost myself and I lost. I keep I keep I keep. I keep losing people. Nighttime is unraveling. The red foxes are sleeping, and the air is squalling in the midmost selections of places, I’m on the balcony humming the songs underneath the bitterness to lull me to burgundy pastures. I’m going astray, gone.

There’s not enough time to live forever. And on my best days, I do want to live forever and taste the sparkling drops of purity. Sometimes I make a good man and its a beautiful day. I’ll look for those days, I’ll find a way to look for those days.

I’m stopping before the finish line. Thank all the fountains, lucky stars, cohorts.

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It's all a matter of rust and shine, to serve a distinction between to have and to have not.

8 thoughts on “Beckett in the Flicker of a Crying Cigarette”

  1. The complete gorgeousness. These words are the keys for the passage through the present. Lucky for us.

    I’ve been reprimanded for saying what I like about your writing, Watt. I’m to tell you simply that it is excellent. Excellent, Poet. Will that satisfy my scolder? Hope so!

    And now to why I like this piece: I like the journey undertaken from beginning to end. (I am weary of people navel-gazing). It flows and from time to time is held up by barriers in the stream. Then it flows again and halts before the finish line because……..well, you are still there. To write more wonderful pieces. Woke writing. Just wonderful.



    Liked by 2 people

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