||[Jun. 28th, 2007|02:46 pm]
Tell me what it is to be crippled man with his own world of affairs, vast and heterogeneous- who leaves the stench of his sickly sermon behind for the next self-righteous iconoclast to inhale and wilt from.|
Now I know what it feels like to play bifold and engage in the theft of your own dignified repose. Not destruction, because that’s easy and obsolete. But turning a shoulder every time you’re standing at the lustful, magnetic fingertips of a lover, carving ‘I’ into your skin so you can prove you’re not swearing this by anyone else. Making sure your words are misunderstood, your movements fugitive – this is seduction. This is rape. This is manual theft of the soul, greed of the mind. Refusing to rest your head on the fresh wounds because of the electricity dripping down your skull. More sacred than your own de[scent]. One-stop transport to failure, glut of keepsakes on the way. A heart of interest, a rooter of mammonism. The ordinary grows lucent. The crowd of givers wanes. A wake inside of me. A filigree of charming vines of confusion branching out thorn-adorned coils, overlapping each other, permeating my body and filling numbed cavities with fancy pantheons- this leaves me laden with some false sense of responsibility, screaming under and fighting back my own abductions. Something fixed – nonhallucinated.
Being birthed didn’t do this to me, for I fell no shorter of screaming to go back in the womb than envying the infant in the adjacent room who didn’t last. No. I embrace the solid fact that I will only breathe and last alone, regardless of whatever shameless larks I come to bask in sporadically. Paying cheap interest to humanity in ways that undermine my own objective, triggering the worship of my submersion into obscurity. The acrid percussion of disillusionment. Make it last. Promises that grow old, wear off on people. This is what happens when you elect a leader born breathless. I can feel the reverberations in advance; it’s when I step out of the cage into the bloody brothel of my own small version of mankind that I start pining for the roots of my being, feigning intrigue so that I not dismay, gripping thoughtlessly onto sweat that drops in torrents and yet leaves no trace. Absolutely no trace. Ever. The unavenged agent of thought-loss, and the outrage that loomed over the set of its misrepresentation- I took proud claim of this betrayal to my own soul, but not to the underfed bellies of the others. Give way to polished excuses and collapse- this should be all I accept of myself in frame of them, right? It’s not what I spend my time rolling and shifting. But the carelessness is. The dying meaning I clawed my way into, found no exit and curled up, re-wombed, biting and shaking. This comforts me.
Imprisonment isn’t romantic, and neither trying to paint a picture of freedom to sell. But to be free of this? Of them? It’s almost too much to ask for. Finding trails of withered hope in heavy eyes makes me grimace, though I know the sight is not mine to grimace at – or even take into cognition. It is their own, now. I have done my part. Maybe I haven’t done anything at all. I acquiesce. Resignation? Go ahead, take it. Take the chance you wait like a vulture for and tell me that I’m a coward. Show me up. I witness the letting go each and every time- do nothing to stop it- yet still refuse to wear a warning sign on my sleeve. It’s gone and I’m moving on. Also comforting to know that this is never a harbinger to any sort of awakening or improvement of any sort. If so, it would fall upon deaf ears and eyes. A skull with a log through its temples. There’s maybe one person in the entire world who understands me on this. Others to keep in mind, time and loneliness shore up the smoke of names to dream of when I’m not buried in a toilet – or underneath the ground.
My darling in Hollywood , the only name of them I could possibly fucking care to remember, alongside remembering things that I shouldn’t. Still feeling remorse, who knows. Wishing I could hear her laugh again, let her embrace me just once more. I hear her call to me even when I know she is away. Hear this song and that song and think of her smile. Couldn't ask her to do the same for me, though. Seemed to only meet with her in intervals between consciousness. So it goes. Still, hers was the only genuine fucking smile I’ve ever encountered in my life. Too much to forget, yet hardly enough to remember. My dear in the Sahel, wondering how his arms are carrying him, inked in what he’s doing – I sigh in assurance he is safe, because I’ve felt nothing yet, and can only bear to miss him so much longer. Smile when I hear from others that he's doing well. Time goes by just a little bit faster when I think of him writing, or sleeping, kicking the sand. But never when he’s thinking of me. Although at times I feel I need to know it- we both do- I hate to be a distraction amidst anyone’s time of enrichment. He deserves this more than ever. My mistress above, our contact is slowly throwing, but my thoughts of her are not. Wonder what’s keeping her busy, wonder if she wonders of me. Missing her dignified bearing of love admixed with keenness that I’ve not seen in anyone else.
Another, [god kill me. fuck it.] whom I worked rather attentively for, could raise a tentative smile on my face knowing that he is perhaps not even alive anymore. I never took him in rightfully. Only saw him, with full conscience of this, as everything he tried to convince me he was not. He let go, though- ran to another kingdom of drugs and fear, left me a message I didn’t bother to listen to. Left me a man whose gutless world I had to maneuver into via mutual suffering [mild vexation] and specious trust. Oh, Goodbye, little boy, whose only motto should be nothing more challenging than ‘Hurts so good’. I can only hope that when his open wounds are exposed to cold air, he doesn’t take it as a gift from me or any other example-maker. Kind of like venom, hissing between cracked lips. My mind of him contracts in the light – would it not give so many pleasure to see crumble at the seams, or at least so many within our broken bed of dirty thoughts and shallow influences. Dull aches and vengeful passions. Sworn off in temperament. Our memories manifested through shadows – part of a wilderness that rains down artillery each time it feels foot. Was bound to fail. Feeding leads to habituation. This park is full of poachers.
Don’t even fucking care to predict what’ll become of it. Or diagnose what already has. Not to make a memory of it. Just to make a disappearance. Departing in a black veil doesn’t employ reason, departing in an explosive-rigged vest does. Easy to yield yourself to temptation when the consequence is already in the past. Adjudging my disinclination to setting my clocks or even changing my fucking diapers as the manifestation of the blistering disease of reality that lies within me. Rotten and hollow, grave and dull. I can only hope those who follow me would surrender themselves sooner than they would allow me to discourage them to. Break away and break down. Run back to insecurity, reach for the nearest text to smear your insides with. It’s thoughtful to live this way. Thoughtful and abject. For those who have to fucking pant every time they key up some crying conclusion, the rupture of the heart makes peace with the gravity of their shoulders. And always having to go back and look up the definition of ‘irony’. Make a black market of fool’s poetry. This coming from a girl who when little wrote a book called ‘The Achromatous Rainbow’.
No need to stipulate a price to all this.