Friday, January 21, 2011

the abortional swain

I dedicate this to all the lords of life.

I’m glad your love for me is no more. I can be a whirlwind at times. A fucking tornado of gorilla libido that swings from a painful branch tearing flesh from one soul and swiftly daggling onto the next grabbing firmly without a god given care to say the least. I’ve pushed you into reverse right back to the simulacra from which you came and I find it cheerless that this is where you choose to reside. I did this. I did this to you. And I can only observe this progression in the third person view in some type of omni-awareness, so let me deconstruct. Let me face my own reality, my own stream that leads somewhere, or leads nowhere. Come, let us stand at these steps and watch how they ascend; let us count these steps that lead upward and out of sight. So foreign are these signs that I do not grasp, still, and perhaps will never comprehend. I look at my old hands and gaze at the skin lines that have always traveled imperfectly and I occasionally wonder if in fact they have meaning. Are these the graphs of secret language from which I should decipher? Or do they have any significance at all? Do I lack the affirmative principle that they’ve been assigned to? Perhaps you knew it all along but you were too frightened to except it until it turned dreadful and when that day came, the day when all of it died, we were left with all these questions unanswered. A twisted riddle that neither I nor you had any response for. The ungenerous, fragmented parable. And so I glide through nature ghostlike past lunar lit meadows of fern appearing somniferous to those who would find me tolerable until their tissue splits apart and I, the foolish jester, once again am satisfied with the magnitude of their open wound. Maybe tomorrow will bring a sleep that will linger awhile, a year, forever. Or perhaps I have figured it out. Perhaps the ultimate engineering of all this can be grouped into two stories: the continuity of life or the inevitability of death. One thing I know for certain is that my heart hurts. I wish I never met you. I wish I never entered. I wish my raft continued to sail on to an arid atoll where I can live and die alone. At least I can be the god of this island or better yet an angel with a halo that didn’t come cheap. I don’t even need shoes.

“We see young men who owe us a new world, so readily and lavish they promise, but they never acquit the debt; they die young and dodge the account or if they live, they lose themselves in the crowd.” - Emerson

4 comments:

veraicon reality said...

bravo. you take my breath away with what you write.

Blue Heeler said...

and here I thought you considered this piece of scribble scrabble "light"

jerzygirl45 said...

You're extremely gifted in your words. I look forward to reading more of your work

Blue Heeler said...

I can also cook a mean sweet potato soup.