Bodies in Flight


Hushed voices as her skeleton remains sacred. Trees that cover her like a blanket. Wrapped in natural horror, she dreams of being found yet they’ll never unearth the secrets she holds dear. Temporary pain not of interest to me. Only the glow of smiles as my teeth flash like those of the Cheshire Cat. Blow after blow, the days still come around as if this is how it should be. Getting on with setting fire to my fuse. Light up the dulling hours with madness. Break apart the rigid texture that they sell us so easily. All those people. Those pictures of lifeless tedium. Buildings as tiny solar systems. The city as a universe. Bubbles always crashing. Bursting like thoughts as routine brings you back to where you started. Not interested in old homes. No desire to cling for the first time ever. Convenient no longer. Stories for whores. Jumbled acts of confusion as wives watch in wonder as their husband revert inwards. Boiled heads and urban myths. Death and tales of the damned. Scratches on the walls in a state of catatonia. Fingernails removed, shyness so ugly. Children running up the stairs next door, the radiator speaks to me of intent. It sends me to sleep. In the throes of collapsing, my chest rises like a tide of liquid mercury. Can’t explode in a vacuum. Can’t grow when everything is so still.

There’s a sea chest at the bottom of my bed. There’s too much clutter in my weary head. Cities of machines burning just out of sight. Subways alight with cats eyes jumping quickly this way and that. Blind people in wheelchairs. Cleft palates and spinal fluid in a coke can turned ashtray. Hipster mutilation as tight bodies dissolve in dirty hospital beds. Don’t phone me. Don’t ask me why. Broken ankles on a nudist beach. Pubic bones uncovered by virginal hands. Television always on even when the old man is six feet under. Put your camera away. Cut your watch strap and free yourself of what it means to be human. Eat mashed up food. Spit on the poor. Buy a packet of cigarettes then feed them to feeble children. Invented diseases for the masses. Cull the lot of them. Genocide whilst eating toast. Abandoned babies left in a heap of piss stained clothes. Utter nonsense yet the key to my truth is found in every word. Bored of what is offered to me as reality. This sequence is not to my liking. It boils my blood. It tastes like elephant. Hacked off ivory in a pendant around my throat. Keep it safe. Keep it close. Symbolism from my world to yours. Stardust in the way our bodies collide.

2 replies »

  1. Your sparse writing style is destabilizing at first but perhaps that’s why I find myself drawn in; like walking through a forest of trees with trunks stretching straight up into the clouds.

    • Thank you. I agree my style can be somewhat difficult at times, but it’s just how my mind works. Never sitting still and always searching. I appreciate your comments, they give me confidence to keep pushing forwards.

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