“I feel that I’ve lived in a lonely shadow that has echoed across my thrills, resounding and reverberating to a zero whenever it wished. There’s been laughter, nights that grew faster, days that have clung on till my haircuts, and I’m headed a way that leads me to more. Sadness is fastened to my mind, and my hands are in seismic shakes of caressing my forehead, and hair. Moments are flung above my eyes, and I watch as they fly away, they look back, keep making me feel more of something that I have boxed and wrapped in dust so it can unravel in age, in time. Yet something empties me, wastes me somehow because the manner in which I narrate myself can’t navigate thru my desires, which are many and unclear. I can survive being alone, and move on, but with all this space in my mouth, my tongue flattened, stuck to my jaw, the air wrestles and flips in the abundance of space. So, I stare into the two or three stars in the night sky, feeling the chill on my vacant arms and legs, lights dripping oldly from the ceiling, draped in thin boundaries, fading into the walls like paintings struck into museums, still, lifeless, objective. My head bobs, my mind runs, my brain knits all these dreams, and makes me imagine scenarios that exhaust my satisfaction. I should sleep but instead I’ll watch Blade Runner”
He carried thru the day shuffling vigilant eyes thru the center stage of the sky where the sun wiggles in between the tip of clouds to set and end the day. The traffic unzipped on the road and paved way, so he could drag his bones in their pulsating skin to his destination.
He studied sanctuaries of mountainous papers, and libraries of secret prayers but all he found were stunts and glimpses, advertisements wrung in stapler pins, and zero meaning. Yet again.
Does this cycle of discoveries make him less afraid to die? Make him more capable of last goodbyes? Because now he measures time in his head, binds hours in handshakes, and dreams at the blink of an eye. And he dreams forevermore of visiting those place he failed to see, his fingers pacing, and hair tracing the corners of his memories, ailing to stomach that slight twitch of the body that lapses in between states of sleep and awareness, and districts of travel and stasis.
Scratches permeate the membranes of his imagination in the concise cut of hope, and as he looks onward the indigo sea on his calendar, focusing his vision as the pages flutter from the breeze. His weariness hurries to the top of his lungs, and he cannons an exasperated sigh into open air, burying the days marked on the calendar, waiting for a howl of release.
The water broke in past the walls,
And smashed onto the table tops, drowning flowers and shattering vases,
And as your eyes hid behind your parted fingers, curling into the corners of your couch,
Fetal and grey, lonely with static sounds in your flooded ear.
The matchboxes descended from atop the fridge,
And the calendars hanging on the adjacent wall crinkled within the moment,
Slowly, magically, vanishing into the airy fizzes that came off an empty bottle of milk that opened in fair mistake.
Soon, you awakened to dry land, furniture parched of smiles,
And bed sheets wryly writhing in unmade ways.
You don’t say anything.
Headed a street, vacancy occupying the conversations,
Memories still flowering in a brain gunning against runny desires.
All dreams are delivered to you in your sleep,
And you don’t say anything, because you’re still impartial of time to come.
Hoping to come off the boundaries, and whispering to disillusioned park benches,
That hope flakes on your skin, frailly dances across each synapse,
Binding each conclusion in measurements of consequences,
And setting you apart, sailing you across,
to happy, and softly lit lands of film festivals,
and clocks, and chocolates,
Between minutes of life and love and death.
The sadness sets in stone,
and in pebbled flings of hands, ripples the water.
My gaze meets each inch and and travels upward the sky,
where the clouds are melting and gurgling like white lightning,
and coming mistily down to screen the darkness.
It’s draped in white.
And my exploration trembles behind,
arms begin spacing, knees start to heel,
everything is a snapshot dragged across time in flaming orange,
pacing each wooden moment, floor to my feet.
Maybe in a million nights,
I could approach the fluttering sound of my heartbeats, and color my breath with Sharpies on an easel,
with water trapped in a petite bottle, shining like sapphires. Glimmering.
Off the western edge of his bed, there were boxes of broken light bulbs, and tapes binding teary fronts of books. And burnt pages were settled snugly into the air particles that scattered at the beat of a hand.
Face in, and tongue out, he hollowed the vessels in his eyes to be a screen for tears, for them to somehow appear, suddenly he felt blindes by his drowsiness, and his eyelids began closing in, lips quivering tragically. Wholly and coolly lit radium pumped stickers were killing the silhouettes of darkness, and he was living easily off the stars and the moon cut in quarters. He pushed everything away, and paused at the globe in the handles of his dancing fingertips, and so it came to a crash, and he came to be slow, and to lay beside his pillow, with his head clothed by his blanket, feeling Netflix infected.
He wanted blackness and surprise in the midst of his nerves and his tension, while the ceiling of his room wheeled above, the fan driving wind into his mouth open with a vacuuming yawn, and his legs still were seismic, and his stomach was folded as he curved and flipped in his throes of sleeplessness.
Lights wavered on his skin from the projection of a movie, as he sat with his friend in the room that handled all those functions, so people could watch the dysfunction. He had decided to recline in a life, which would decline at the pace of communication between a face and another, drawing the shutter inwards to be fastened into a private space for a sad party.
Popcorn decorated the threads that were a messy entanglement between air and humidity. The AC was non-functional, staplers bound documents that were yet to be filed lay scattered across the dusty, carpeted floor. He dreamed that they would be filed by high noon, he dreamed that dream a thousand times. But in the vein of conclusion, he decided to bow his head to the carefree rider clinging to his black motorcycle, in his flowing Hawaiian shirt, and his Jockey boxer shorts, advancing into the night with endless summers.
His friend exited the room, tripping on a wooden table, the one Jim had sold, and he had brought, to keep making him guffaw. Jim traveled thru phases, and searched for meaning, it was his futuristic job, his undone profession that came unstuck in generations.
After his friend had vanished, Jim slipped into the drawer, retrieved unsound pen and paper, and accessed that opening in his brain from which thoughts seem to be flooding, surfing in an intracranial beach, clinging to his fingers, wanting to fall down and shatter across and tightly into the world. Sentences were triggered in succession, and confessions were fluttering, stranded, on a disco scene.
“I don’t think I have been wearing away recently, its all a choice. And I choose to be right here. No extraterrestrial ending seems to be gunning after me, and my eyes adjust to the laser-like rays of sunlight just fine. They really do” he started nodding his head, and continued “I can bend my knees, kneel down, upturn books, uproot flowers and throw them to another life, and be such an ashen, coarse skin and bone strolling thru dire direction. But maybe I’ll just crack another beer, be here or there, and then walk back into life, and it’ll school me about things, then I’ll be back.”
Here lay violets in a hawk-face celebration that gawks out of my window. An assurance lay nearby, ‘Everything’s going to be alright’ And I headed out with a crescent-shaped smile, and a gorge in my eyes, to collect the blaze of lips shutter in a rose-colored brain. All the burning idleness, recalled in passionate wind. The day lay at the center of the galaxy, speckled in children’s scream, and it floated away at the tap of the chest, beating in advanced laughter of the sad, sad, unforgiving weather.
Night was an exploration, that searched for a steering wheel, to trundle in the dregs of a silver memory, bathing in suntan-daydream swimsuits. And a wobbly pedestal arrested me in its comfortable clutch, I placed a hand over another hand, and my legs crawled toward the accelerator, building up force, slower, slower still. I flew deep into the night.
The wind made walls that closed in, an aviary of chirping colors, changing my head to my hands, charging my nose with mawkish wetness. And the brick laden streets were snapshots of an ancient, emptying heat that was breeding in long, blonde fields of what could have been, what I believe should have been. If only I was in a standstill in a stranger land, I would collapse. But I’m still here, nails sunk into the leather covers, and fixing the chains of my seat-belt, always looking out at the rain.
“Come, stare its legs off, and wear it down in a spiral, hungering its beauty”
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.
“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.
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.