Autumn loss and breasts that bounced upon unwashed bedsheets. In the neon light they captivated whilst the universe danced at a loss. All avenues of time colliding whilst my hands held your arms tightly behind your back. You were mine. In reality and in dreams, you belonged to me. Heat death and big crunches. Shooting seed and the falling of internal walls. Visions of heavenly plateaus whilst the ghosts took photographs of us as we slipped out of time. Your eyes never lied, even when everything else fell to the wayside. Roadkill and miscarriage. Acne and black’d out beliefs. The smell of your sex, and the scent of the perfume you used to cover it. The more focused I become, the madder I get. Madness swallowing me like that pretty little mouth of yours. Organic lovers, always and never on the tip of my tongue. I’ve known a few, yet they’ve never known me. My condition isn’t failure, it’s just a way of preventing adulthood. Longing for peace like the way the sky used to carry above your slender bones. Drink and cigarettes. I don’t know why, but you’ve changed my chemistry. You’ve made me someone out of reach. Sleep soothes my pain, it eases the hate. Cheating hearts and passive truths. Let me blow smoke and just ease into the clouds. Let me drift like newspapers in the wind. Leaves in the breeze, and kisses upon tired necks. I’m not a myth, I’m just a soft machine. I’m not forever, I’m just doing my thing until I’m taken home to the great gig in sky. I’m sorry for everything, it’s just the way I fell without knowing how to fall. So many places, so many faces. They escape me like sorrow, drenching my clothes like the sins of the scum that surround me.
Drinking beer whilst gazing out the window. Random objects strewn across my bed whilst a cigarette is stubbed out in a makeshift ashtray. Shadows on the wall, they remind me of being a child, of the wonders of imagination. Another side to life that’s always out of reach. People die. People disappear along with impossible dreams. Jobs that occupy time. Jobs that drown us in pointless exercises. Money is king, and we are its whores. My skin itches, red marks inflicted on me by the biggest whore of them all, good ol’ mother nature. Destined to be alone, these stories can’t deny death. They can entertain another life, yet the hand of time will always drag me down. It drags everyone down in the end. Young and old, ugly and ripe. That flesh they parade around. Those juicy bellies and pert tits, they mean nothing. None of this means a thing. Plastic culture. A catastrophe waiting to happen. Feel alive in the crushing metal of a car crash. Insides in the gutter, my mothers guilt is not my own. The rage of my chemistry, it’s just how things are. Excuses are good for some, but for me they never seem to fit. This is how I was made, it’s how I am. Engulfed by the flames of thought, every action creates another reaction. Every passing feeling leading to yet another dark horizon. Howling like a broken guitar, these trembling hands dissolve as morning calls once more. Repeat after me. Dust and hushed secrets across the gallows of your sacred sex.
The old man thinks he’s got cancer. Years of drink and cigarettes have taken their toll. He puts a brave face on, but I can tell by the look in his eyes that he’s scared shitless. He’s wasted too many days. A failed marriage of thirty years haunting his every step, all he can do is pray for another day to make right his wrongs. Somewhere in a nearby field stands a girl who’s growing older by the week. She looks a little rough around the edges now. Those luscious locks not quite as fine as they used to be. Those bags around the eyes a little more pronounced with every passing drama. She’s still got a body worth exploring, yet before she knows it, that too will be gone. Gone like the innocence of beauty that breaths no more. Gone like her mother dead for so long that I can’t even remember what she looked like. Yet those hips could still take you places. They could make you sing if you really wanted. But everything she adores is riddled by the laws of bland mankind. There’s no magic in her. No taste for the other side. Only the appeal of society, of the desires of normality. Be crazy. Be mad. Look into the abyss. Go rescue your dreams from it if need be. Do what you can to put yourself together again, and then burn like those nights of fire and wine.
The sun burns my skin. It makes me tired whilst I try to sleep. I live to breathe in the dreams that escape me during the day. My sights remain focused on a novel that has blighted me for the best part of four years. All those years, that time I’ll never get back. But there was no other way. The path had to be walked. She says I have no fight, but I’m stronger than she’ll ever know. Dead children and depression dragged me down. Problems with the bottle always digging their claws into my back. Putting faith in writing when not a word was written in so many months. Yet I carried on. I believed that one day the words would return. When I was alone with only ghosts, the easiest thing to do would’ve been to give up, yet I continued even when no one else was looking. So long I was adrift. So many drunken nights spent lost not knowing why I was so comatose. Yet the limbo faded. Through determination and faith, the footsteps revealed themselves once more. I’m a loser, a freak of nature, yet the thoughts and visions that occupy my mind make me thankful to be alive. It’s all about commitment, about having a spine. What’s mine is mine, yet with no audience how many people would invest their soul into something so fruitless? A madman maybe. A lunatic, yes. Yes, a lunatic all snuffed out on the limits of Deadlight City. I’ll surf that wave, you see if I don’t.
They tell me to take drugs, but my eyes are already open. My mind is an obsolete machine, it serves no other purpose than to eat all that it deems fit. Brunettes between the chair and the bed. Tight thighs and patterns in the sand. Wreck those relics of porn and bury your fears beneath weeping chestnut trees. There’s no need to be afraid any more. The future is in the palm of your hand, and all you have to do is pick up that digital pen and write. Bow down to the one you serve. Obey Dionysus. Drink until you’re blind. Walk the quarry until you can see without eyes. Fuck to the sound of church bells. Sniff dust covered books and praise the pain that made you what you are today. Cans of beer placed in a pentagram as we strip naked to the voices of destroyed worlds. They come to us from distant galaxies. Gasoline and black holes as my fingers circle your sex. The charred remains of old relationships. Weeds grow on them and deliver life once again. Animals in the forest, how they chased you as the moon cast you in its nocturnal beauty. Shapeless shapes as the veins in my cock tightened like a hangman’s noose. Extinction painted pretty. King cigarette on the the corner of pointless streets. Inject me. Infect me. Disappear here. Go to a place where you feel at one with the sun. No more no less. Strings of discipline from town to future city. In a hospital bed she bled. In a field of corn I’ll taste the scent of her hair once more. This is not an exit. It’s a portal to all we want to achieve.
What scares me most, the horrors of the outside world, or what’s inside my head. They’re both pretty damned to be fair. Bad things happen to good people, but it should never be a reason to stop before you’ve even begun. Just because the path you’re walking is an unusual one, doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be walked. Who’s to say how a life should be led. Who’s to say how you should live when this is the only chance we get in a universe growing colder by the minute. Give your love to someone worth your heart. Keep going with those dreams that have gripped you for so many years. Time doesn’t matter, it’s just a means to an end. I’ve always been with you, and I’ll never leave. These humdrum places, they’ll never match the fire in my belly. The faces that pass me by, they’ll never touch me, they don’t mean a thing. I’m so close to breaking the ice. So close to doing something that will smash apart every part of me that no longer deserves to exist. This is not a nether world. This is now. We might be nowhere, but sometime soon, we’ll be everywhere. Carved into a million arms and upon all those curious tongues, we’ll be swimming with the angels just like we deserve. All we have to do is keep moving. Away from the grave and towards the sun, born again whilst others cling to possessions. Let go. Do your thing, and leave them all behind.
From a heavenly plateau to the wastelands down the back of the sofa. Finding cheap gold to afford energy drinks and wine at the sacrifice of eating food. Those days when to drink was more important than my own health. Those days of autumn wonders. Leaves and snow as you stood there not knowing the horrors of the future. Turtles swimming in vivarium’s whilst thoughts of mayhem riddled my unsure mind. Spiders and cracked tiles on the kitchen floor. It’s important that every little thing stays with me. The past is not to be denied. My history a badge of honour, a way of discovering the secrets of the future. Anxiety whilst waiting in line at the local convenience store. Shaking hands and heartburn as others squirmed around me happy in abject misery. They writhed around in false sunshine as I tried so hard to keep things together. The way they looked so normal at times whilst I was on the verge of some kind of breakdown. The here and now. It makes me feel so small, but at least I feel real. That’s what matters most. Despite the sadness and the haunting sense of loss that never leaves, I know that I’m alive. That I’ve loved in the face of apathy. Against a world of indifference, I tried to be someone different to others, someone who stayed true to themselves. It hurts, but what else is there? To become like everyone else? To live the lifeless joys of all those that have gone before me? This path is a solemn one, yet it will set me free. I feel it in my tired bones. I feel it in the depths of my drowning soul. One day, I’ll run into the sun and breathe the kisses of the universe into my tired lungs. I’ll surface when others will think I’m gone. No such thing as luck, and no such thing as a fluke. Just persistence and belief.
Light a cigarette whilst closing your eyes. Lights fade as the wind creeps in through the open window. Footsteps travelling always away. The scent of heat leaves me at a loss. I’m so much older than I believe, yet the visions in my mind keep me as young as I need to be. Age is irrelevant. It serves no other purpose other than to damn us before we’ve even woke up. Sleep makes us, then life takes it all away. But what if imagination could help us to cheat this fate? What if the faith in my heart could help me to become something more than just a distant memory? The bubbles we created. Those moments when we existed outside of everything. Beneath blankets and stars we chased black dogs into submission. On the cusp of revelations, we fucked because there was nothing left to do. Our bodies mirrored in a TV screen, the 80’s chewed at our toes as the day passed without us even knowing. The seed of myself. The weakness of your fragile mind. Falling always, the pain of all that could have been picks away at me even though I smile like I know what’s going on. They see me as a fool, as some kind of jester, yet I’ve been beyond the dim lines of despair more times than I dare remember. Noise doesn’t mean intelligence. Money doesn’t equal interesting. Let’s get lost, just the two of us. Let’s lose our reflections. No more you, and no more me. Only love to save us when there’s abandonment for everyone else. Sunday morning napalm attack on my alcohol stained brain. Need to drink more water. Need to go for a walk and lose myself until this heart of mine is fine again. Solitude and myth. City dress so pretty at the foot of my bed.
I can’t remember their names. The scent of their hair remains though. Ten nights spent alone with beer and lusty women. Images of deprivation. Bodies the likes of which you’d never want to see again. Luminous eyes glistening with dead sex. Guitars to serenade lost failures. Picture frames blessed with every bout of nauseous despair I can think of. My depression is like the night sky painted prussian blue. It’s ignored like poverty and child abuse mixed with linseed oil. Glowing orbs beneath my tongue. Lonely bones as the outer world distracts. The scent of oranges, I taste them on the memory of your lips. Hundreds dead in the time it takes for you to take off that dress and show your bones. Don’t put your image on me. I’m my own man and I don’t need someone else’s signature upon my flesh. No copies, only the purest gun. Dead wrestlers and push-up bras. Teenage woes and teenage holes. Infected with self disgust, they boil and pus beneath vengeful suns. Snarling dogs and helpless lovers. Sing for me a song. Smoke a heavenly cigarette. A mass of relics of no concern whatsoever. Only aureoles make sense, everything else just filler. Felt tip pens on saggy bits and pieces. War. It acts as perversion, and perversion is what we always want. Bent over and ready to be taken. Like an animal, and just like an angel. The sea breathes us. It acts as a lubricant to our fears. Gasping. Reaching for diamonds. Biting my chest. Chewing me up like the future.