Between The Clock And The Bed

everything

10lbs of bones. 21 women. It could be more but never less. Lakeside lovers. Poverty in crows feet. Identify my lack of guts amongst the dreams of sleeping bees. Honey soaked guilt. Shoes in the corner of a darkened room. Wolves at opaque doors. Smoke cigarettes to open passage ways to the unborn. Sniff fingers of strange glue. Plastic faces melting in Florida sun. Unwashed clothes in creaky beds. Burnt sights and fragments of love scattered this way and that. I’m cold like a wishing well. Or perhaps a dying star. These curtains flutter with untruths. Don’t edit my words. Don’t let me fade into the stratosphere. Echoes fall into pools of light. Black flowers and heartburn. Bouts of nervous anger. Surrendered to glass mazes these figures point to nothing but the fall of western youth. 1509. Twenty years nude. Electrical disfigurement. She’s a nurse yet she offers no hope. Soon after I was born the curtains fell in unison. Tigers and frightful men. Just a boy in sheep skin. Symbols so sweet. Patterns in fruitless desire. When she awakes will she still walk with us? Will she still gaze at my face like these days were never the same? Ruptured lives and minds that take flight through fear of not knowing. The past shields us from detail. And that’s what the devil calls home. Collectors of scenarios. Illusions born through boredom and despair. Stay away from those whose only wish is to lose themselves in others. They can’t find their image, so they seek out another. Pity the lambs. So sorrowful they follow never knowing what it is to see themselves whole. Cute brunettes in lamp light. Through the snow they tremble waiting to be let in. Don’t let them choke. Don’t let them crumble.

It must be something in her design. She’s out of control and destined to implode. She attracts spiders. Sin is her medicine. She swallows without hesitation. She eats her own. Winter months bring nothing but self disgust and imperfection. Nothingness in the leaves. It’s the only thing that breathes and it does so without hesitation. Days escape. Inwards vision as the mist obscures all outside my window. The seasons never change yet they always surprise me. So fickle. So lame. Gravestones as markers of devotion. Collecting stones and handfuls of earth the people watch with vacant eyes. They never seem to see what’s going on. They exist outside of time. A painting watches me from above the radiator. The face of a faithful one clutching a holy book. I am the king of kings and I always will be. Objects hold secrets. Their history sharp unlike memory which fades and confuses. The scratches and stains of a journey from one place to the other. Photographs of candles. Of an apartment where dead souls congregate. Churches no longer relevant. Dim religion a slave to culture vultures. Vanity so pious. Young tongues like worms and maggots so whiny on every street corner. Hang with plastic atoms. Drop chemicals and divide yourself at the feet of a beautiful woman. Several seconds is all that it takes. With the scalpel between my fingers, I’ll cut whatever I want. Electricity whilst the television flickers in the corner of the room. The Heimlich maneuver so serene. Focus not needed. Concentration illuminates all. Those with purpose so tedious like a gameshow on repeat. Drive if you will, but you’ll be going nowhere fast. Avenge the freaks. Punish the walls of doubt. It’s not dying, just the leaving behind of an outdated shell. We are all carcass. We are all bemused like birds at twilight.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s