Videotape

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Insects in her belly. They scuttle, always biting. Itching. There’s nothing secret about an abundance of insects. There’s nothing lovely about the horrors of nature just out of view. Behind the curtains of flesh, the terror of bone is forever. Muscle and cartilage, stretching and breaking in childbirth. They sound like the calling of dead stars from a billion miles away. In a landslide consisting of bottled beer and teenage dreams, I drowned intoxicated, and full of holes. Gunshots ringing out on the corner of 58th Street, I blew smoke into the face of a dying man. There was no pity, only wonder and disdain. Snow and smoke, swirling like angels in heaven. Bullets as messengers. Holy like the soil as he passed from one state to the next. Lips and kisses in darkened rooms. Photographs of the sea. Horses and whores, illuminated by candlelight. Statues of deceased leaders and werewolves foaming at the mouth. They reach out, desperately wanting a taste of something sweet. Eyelashes, fluttering with innocent desire as the wolves crawl around her feet. Bathed in moonlight, they howl as she showers. Nude, and flowering. Petals so vibrant. Lucid scent with piano music so lulling. Some kind of joy, just begging to be taken by a hungry heart. A heart consumed by want and greed. Hunger. Famine. Carrion mother at a disco for the damned. The early hours of the morning when there’s nothing left but shame. Swelling and throbbing, so sickly and cheap. Mountains and darkness. Unseen insides. Teeth and bleeding gums. The memories of soft machines, loveless and doomed. Lighting a cigarette, I look out the window at a landscape consisting of abandoned buildings and dimly lit fields. The trees are petrified; they scream animal screams. They remain paralysed by natural fear, like the hands of a man with nothing left to lose. Holding a gun, he walks the beach and aims at someone not there. Ghosts and apparitions of a history untold. The words are unsure, and the images conflicting. Swimming in something beyond the realms of understanding. Haunted, like a lone female figure, stood on the end of a windswept pier. Ocean surrounding, she looks down and wants only to disappear beneath the waves. Serenaded by natural glory, if only. Diamonds and lipstick. Glorified like videotapes; videotapes that show women and murder. As sacred as the Bible, and just as dirty. IHS, like a grave, long since forgotten.

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