One Wedding Wrong

Don’t they break you when you’re done for in the closet that drowns you in your own heavy sighs?  Drag you to the table tops, cloak you with regret, and drink you till darkness, and it may too be gone tomorrow. May everyone walk away, aching your body and bottle your hair and cradled head in suntan hands, heightening the reach that adorns the blood showered back, chest crossed with warnings and neck bound by the asphyxiating rope of rocks.

“I settle under the bridge between day and dismay,

And I don’t move.

Or I forget to be better.

What happens when it ends?

Do I remain?

Is someplace close to the ache, is it quiet there?

Everything will fall apart.

And underneath the brazen apex, what you see,

I fault and I break.”

The floor you had to walk is gone, and the loss has broken the bands of thoughts in your head, woe in lies and secrets, you won’t survive this. The final look electrifies your soul, clutching your hips with a corrugated cloth that draped the safe touch of self, and you’re quiet as the homeless eye isn’t yours anymore. Tomorrow’s another lie, no man of short hair, or the party of open land.

Unlike 2 AM, afternoons are not meant for Navel Gazing…

“There was no certainty to time, not wrapped in thickets near trash cans, or in the soul. I love the way the earth waits so intently to spring joy in only minutes of life, while the rest of the times, we’re being ourselves. This goes to show that we’re sad, and the show always goes on.” He shrunk to the foot of the bed and fell in interruption of his musings.

Something always disturbed his bad routine, and even if he knew it was bad, and he wasn’t in the ultimate illusion of life, he would go on with it.

It became sadder eventually, as if it were stomached to perish in the freshness of cancerous sunshine. Sometimes he would find a calm amid the pillars of smoke that occluded the bluesy grayness of his eyes, and the hands that wire truth to unreality, which would sustain him another day. From there on, it was dreams and epiphanies arranged to the opening sequence of his construed eternity. He sunk into the lungful sofa on a Friday afternoon, and he mused another sympathetic thought, “I can’t let everything seem so dark blue” but then he thought about nothing. Not about the concept of nothingness and not about its apartment complexes for imagination. Blankly staring the ceiling and the bookshelf holding his definitions, that ecotone was the finale to all his feelings.

The positioning of protective surface over important persona, inspired the closing spark as he ascended toward colour deprived sleep endlessly.

Grief

I stepped out of the hospital towards the cold breeze and the grey sky. The fluorescent lights of the stores smashed against their utility, which was decimated to none because I had nothing to ask for. The blankness amazed me, I was swept off to the alleys, behind crypts, walking the boardwalks, lines, toward the unknown spurts of locations. Maybe there were places in the world sadder than this, or maybe more beautiful, but for that moment now, the city seemed hateful, engrossed in a busy talent, distant, and unwelcoming like all places in the melancholy paint that lazed here, to graze a field there, where I was not, somewhere drilling a tunnel to connect further. There might be places brooding darker in their search for uniqueness but what scalded over me was a school of bitterness that entangled growth with such devious notions that couldn’t be overcome by the train of imagination, or the notoriety of remembrance. Did I have to be so lost, did I have to be so far away from a place that I never had, home? I wasn’t robbed of a home, I never accepted the one I had for its flaws. The bars, galleries, apartment complexes complicated the skyline that I wanted desperately to be consumed by, I wanted to spin a sweater that could warm me to volcanic heat, which could breathe me a new attack and parachute me into an unsound abyss. I wanted to plummet without it actually happening, since I wanted to be there to see myself survive, I wanted to be another person, a spectator of myself and others, a bridge, another; just not what I was, never in this time…

Ruminating the soul could be helpful, maybe that’s what they were all doing. I kept everything contained in my jarred souls, where memory was churning into a sweet jam and becoming a cause of inspiration towards the vague corners of vicious passage. And as I embarked on the voyage to move onward the oceans of faded time, just as fast as I could, to inhale the truth, to realise that when you’re imitating nothing, life is the ultimate truth. The setting parts with light thru the sighing shadows that began to dance in accord with the rippling instability of the lampshades. A netted veil covered my sorrow, and I took apart the pieces of recall, and got free, got idle, looking for a mission, a reason to completely abandon the emotive weight. A psychedelic lie could shamelessly carry me to my bed, illuminate the way to the top, and educate me about the things that I have to do.

Screwery Brewery

To trap his breath, then give, gave up before birth at the kingdom and the clan, impossible truth, he was inside a day, he was inside but now he’s collecting outward at the edges, the hundredth night of the year is always distant, its the last good night, last day that is okay, he’s hunched on the baton criticizing his own eyes, it was he who wades through the rocky pathway and fails full of apathy, one hand weighs on top of the other while both sleep on the metallic edge of the baton, he shouts to flicker the light, and his breath is trapped. He can give newness now, the lights waving horizontally hollering a chance, a probability, his legs draw a sprawl however, dropping at the knees, same old leather jacket, the stiffened tails stick up behind, day dawns, he has only to open his eyes, lift it, to vow afar a promise, a moment past he tackles to hunt, someone divines him, divines us, that’s what he’s come to, come to in the end, a sight to the mind, there divining us, hands and head a little heap, the hours pass, he is still, he seeks a voice to catch a goodbye.

Ruined land, hot, unforgiving ruined land, that he has beaten black with footsteps through the northern lights of Norway, hiking up the Pulpit rock, the best selling show of Scandinavia, trodden black with grunge. He gave up, hugging the lines between the water and the mountain, praying quietly for a little panic to run him up, a little night music. His elbows digging in the rocks as he nestles his head on the grey scatter, confusion of memory and covet of loved ones and impossible youth, grasping the baton from his backpack, in the middle he stumbles bowed over the edge, a life of his own he tried to put in his pockets and drive away in the multitude of meantime, in vain, never any but his, worth nothing, because of being lost, he said it wasn’t one, it was, still is, the same, moments still inside, the same, he’ll put faces in his head, names, places, churn them all up together, all he needs to end, phantoms to flee, last phantoms to flee and to pursue a new zenith for a happy ending.

Water Catches your Eyes

Quiet is an impossibility. Staying calm remains a perception, and not a perpetual possibility in the middle of a final land.

………………………………………………………. ………………………………………………….

Turning slowly, rusting in a white mist. Drowning in the bluesy trail of the panorama. In the arms of barbaric death, the shores speaking to me in spineless decay. Past canyons and canals through the towering pulses. By the hands of impulses and epiphanies, I’m hiding the sound of voyage into a dreamless sleep. You need to come with me.

… ……………… ………. ………. ……. …….. ….. …………….. ………. … .

Saccharine

“Help, I have found myself lost again. I am lurking and I am needy of goodness, help and presence. I’m alone above a folded cave, in the redly lit backdrop that I call the sunset. I feel breathless. And I wrap myself in the easy comfort of the trodden dirt of the desert, its coarse fingers. How many times have I gone wrong? Where did I go wrong? Find me and help me breathe, won’t you please be my friend, won’t you help me look for myself. Loosen me from this knot, I’m standing at an angry height, looking down and thinking whether there are enough mountains to save me. I need to be another age, an age where I wasn’t so far ago. Help me be myself. Drain my blood, fill me with the worsened chemicals to keep me-I’m already gone. But don’t repeat me. Make me realize what we had in the chambers of a small, incomplete life- how I knew not enough but felt like it. Rescue me before the piano is plucked, until it runs and catches up with me-marking my close- and I wish it was fire. Watch all my hope trembling over the flaming sky like a viscid droplet about to splatter and adorn the old ground. I hope in the midst of people that loved me, somebody liked me. All I can do is watch from the window. I’m in seclusion, receding to the columns of shadows that will leave me in pain someday other than today. Don’t erase me, feel emphatic for the character you never knew.

I’m on my own now, I’m on my own again, I’m on my own, I’m on my own”.

Lou Reed

“You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow,
You’re going to reap just what you sow,
   You’re going to reap just what you sow…”

TODAY

Homeless and heavy with the bevy of faults, and heady with the pace of electric sessions to cure the homogenous core. To a land that’s far off the marvel of a lonesome gallery, here in the alley degreed in vanity and guffaws. The daunting windblown doors of bars with a flushed female singer, in a black tight skirt and a black tight top with blonde hair shining in dilated eyes.

Upbeat smolders, upbeat smolders. Thru East Hampton, New York, Manhattan. Subterranean and Pacific rows of echoes. Shiny trails of rock music.

Ambient experimentation, ambient experimentation.

Leather black, sighs of weed, songs reflecting in his palms like his only world.

Ashen sweater, ashen man. Gunshots over guitars. Poe raven. Life underground, all cheering, high soaring, freewheeling, critics abhorring.  

The city is full of countless keepers with a custard emotion, daydream, and delusions of the young navy, twisty friends. It isn’t their first time, it’s there to air the last time, the generation of white lines, and he’s a nice singer and the band leader, there to beat forever, to beat forever.