I’m moving wheels. The days fly by. Images blur. Words, nothing but words. And beer. There should be women, but I need to focus. I’ve taken control. An attack on the senses, a visceral gob in the face to all those who accept banality. The visions I’ve created must be nailed to pages. They can’t escape me. Not again. I’ve plunged head first down the rabbit hole. I’ve no social life. Words are more important. This journal is more important. It’s time to reclaim myself. I bowed down to boredom. The magic left me. The madness reduced to dust. My hunger and rage; my sense of purpose, scentless like a ghost. I’m not concerned with those around me now. The world can turn by itself. Strangeness in a neon city. The bodies reigned in. Stripped bare and offering nothing but pitiful sex. Not lovers, not even whores, just two-bit tramps, sucking the world dry of passion and desire. My hands are instruments of pleasure and pain. My brain pulsating with time travel and murder. Shadows that seduce, that creep beneath flesh blowing kisses on frenzied hearts. Sweat dripping from my brow, my insides ache from the new rhythm I’ve surrendered too. Night skies burning, the music beats away. Soft machines hyped up and choking on stars. Something stirs in the trees. Wind chimes and larks, and a fluttering of butterfly wings. Reaching out to ghosts, fingers link to what was yesterday. Upon darkened glass and the heat of perfume, I’m slipping through layers. In darkened rooms and abandoned corridors, the future and past dance hand in hand. Windows shatter, cars leave the road suspended mid flip. I’m a drunken monster stalking the sidewalk. I’m chasing girls and glitter. Snuffing them out while they sleep, I’m separating, splitting straight down the middle. When I get my hands on them, they’ll dissolve beneath my touch. Something shimmers, a ripple in the mirror above your bed. Naked on twisted sheets, you toss and turn as I approach. Stillness hypnotized with anticipation. In dreams, I’m moving through walls. Darkness, spreading like the muscles of your sex. I’m vivid and explicit. Everything tingles, from bone to machine. I give birth, a creator of lust and sin. The wheels keep turning, the hours disappearing. These days will make me. They’ll burn long after I’m gone. A plague of thoughts, infecting one after another. Your lips so tender, I pull you close and make us taste what we fear more than anything.
Categories: On Writing