Marble Skies


Gore videos and alcohol and all the loveless lovers that cling to ghosts while looking up at the sky wishing for something when there’s nothing. Cigarettes and coffee and books on childhood trauma as some fat man gets his arms hacked off with a dull machete that prolongs the agony just fine. With his chubby face pushed into the dirt so the dirt gets into his mouth and then down into his dying throat, they flip him over and slice open his belly so his entrails burst out. His eyes, they just stare into the distance as the blade goes back and forth and blood and stuff spills onto the cold earth beneath him. Those that do this to him, they laugh and make sure not to wobble the camera. They capture the fat man’s suffering quite well taking great delight in making sure his last moments are as inhumane as possible. It’s a strangely intimate affair, one that touches me more than many memories of fucking. What an end to a life. What a way to go when once there was only the bliss of childhood innocence. As he lies there sucking on thinning air in some humdrum Brazillian field beneath a marble sky, the world turns regardless and I brush my teeth after trimming my beard. The hairs remain in the sink. They look like pubes, and as I flush them down the plughole, I think of the fat man and the mess of torn flesh and broken bones he became. Such sense of finality makes me want to kiss your lips. Such organic terror makes me want to hold you and never let go. Well, at least not until it’s my turn to go the same way. Probably won’t be as brutal, at least I hope not, but the end will come, and they’ll be nothing I can do to stop it. And so your image stays with me. It keeps me safe from the blade. In the fallout that follows, I listen to Boards of Canada and attempt to open doors but none of them open. You’re behind one of them, but fuck if I know which one it is. So then comes a walk and the purchase of sweet liquids and junk food and then that video again. Those eyes of his, so empty as death wraps its hand around his heart. Those brown eyes of yours, how they burn behind my own, making me feel feelings when for years there was not much of anything at all.

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

A Journal for Damned Lovers Volumes 1 & 2 on

21 replies »

  1. Wow! This was violent and wonderful all together. I recognized the last paragraph as the twitter poem and would never have guessed the beginning to it for a million years. Excellent!

    • Whenever I see stuff like this, I always picture them as kids. As sons and daughters. Even if they grew up to be cunts, they were still innocent at one point. And they still had a mom, like you said. I feel weak without a longer beard. Impotent. Sterile. Damned(er)

      • Maybe that’s what I’m imagining, them as kids. Have you seen the one of the 16 year old girl getting attacked on suspicion of theft? By a huge crowd of grown men? Surprisingly, it was in the utopian paradise of Brazil, where nothing bad ever happens.

      • You know, I saw a video of this young woman which culminated in her being set on fire. Somewhere in Brazil by a large crowd. Not sure if that’s the one? Terrible isn’t it- that such a question even exists.

  2. The body, well the brain specifically, does this amazing thing where it won’t let you experience severe trauma. It fascinates me that it literally shuts itself off and this is what that vacant look probably is. I’m more fascinated by where you get taken when it happens and it may be as individual as each person. This, in my odd mind is actually reassuring to me. You don’t have to experience any bit of it.

Leave a Reply

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

You are commenting using your 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 )

Connecting to %s