Extra shot, soy and syrup. As honeyed as the inane chatter. Why should one bother listening? And yet I do. To so skin alive the stranger and take on their countenance. Delicately turning the pages of the weekend rag. Ordering dawn's feast for the senses: both delicate and brutal. Inhaling roses and tomatoes as the wind grips one coldly by the marrow, loosing hunger. And yet with sunrise concealed, blindly meandering thoughts happen into each other... A cacophony of artistic intention lost by the weak rays. No Sun penetrates the grimy windows. Such stark white on the interior as though surgery or a dental appointment. So many missed appointments and cancelled trains. For in the smoke I exhale is shadows of those on the platform. And the exterior is of the raw emotions of the streets, where angels cry ink and blood and the walls whisper; those guardians of civility and chaos. Cheap romance upon the shelf to be paired with smashed avocados. Highchairs unused. I saw children pass by in the rain. Cars; a melody of suburbia. Fenced in a café. Gazing at blank pages as the pen quivers and ink ripples in anticipation, and yet words remain silent... The salt and pepper and cranberry sips of forbidden fruits from an orchid of apples hues of the twenty. My latte goes cold, but I prefer rum.
Before the falcon takes fight he must feast. Before the beast leaves the cage he must be nourished. Yet this chromatic beast does not engage in mighty journeys nor feats of acrobatic hunting. He is spoon-fed. As a child is dependent upon Mother, he is dependent upon the Sheik. International knots of bastardry and a distinct lack of cohesion. Four wheels working unison, yet rusting from within. The hard corners lack the Grace of the falcon. The talons blunted, he roars in ambiguity. The street rats scamper with more elegance. One after the other, desperate for scraps, like the scrap heap, desperate for (m)ore. Or perhaps not. I never signed my name for the approval of others. I flouted as the falcon, impervious and arrogant; the projections of a chick.
The cornerstone of grief; frigidity. The loss of connection, as the Wi-Fi drops its signal. The raindrops upon the window, a reflection of you, so streaking my eyes with your melancholia. Ice and ash, ash and ice. Burning with cold we are all forgotten. Bones rusting, and I smell sulphur. Another funeral, another speech of grandeur. Life’s subjugation, awaiting the dawn. For heat to emanate from a ball of hydrogen. And still I smell sulphur. In the vast nothingness there is solace. In the solace there is temperance. In the temperance there is the possibility of frigidity.
The air putrid with gasoline. Skewed bodies contorted before the altar of the media. A ballerina choking on her cigarette, wondering if the bagel she ate was a sufficient excuse for suicide. The suicide of nature before man. Gasping for oxygen or nitrogen. I rasp as I breathe, yet craving another fag I succumb to the onslaught of eventual demise. Dancing in perpetual denial and delight. Oh, the Delight! Mourning by morning in the balance of the country side. I see no literature to peruse, not a character at which to sniff. Impatient at sharing this air I recline with my vices, in a stupor of delusion. Not I to die, not I to rot. Forgive me the odour of whiskey upon my breath for it soothes my cemillian lungs.
The Dark of Day
The day of uninhabited darkness. I, in your shadow, blind. The lights are extinguished, and I knocking corners bruising bone. I smell your cologne like cheap sweat. Perspiring in darker times. It fills my lungs. Lungs. Could you help me breathe at all? My nose runs with impatience. Streets of filth and streetlights masquerading as the Moon. Fuck! Trauma to the head as my eyes fade from grey to black. Lemon burns, yellow… Riptides of yellow and drowning children. We all know what you did in the shadows where deceit lays. And shit, the Sun is yellow! Or so it would appear. With blotches of red, red as your hands. Why won’t you give me the time? Twisted lies and drowning children explode in the dark. Miles separate this apparent and supposed comity from that apparent and supposed mayhem. Left, right and center. Yes, sir!
Give Them Hell
Subtlety is dead. Why should I give you an answer, an explanation, an essay, a thought, or a fucking clue? Ungrateful as I am, my yin, to watch you hanged and burned. Tendrils of flame licking at you, almost obscene. The Devil’s hand on the eve by the darkness. And by the darkness one falls. Into obscurity. Metallic tongues wagging. Ghosts of Winter so gracing the Devil. And I despise you most.
Delirium in my words. Philosophising and ethereal ad nauseam. And I offer no apology for chaos. No entry point is on offer. I withdraw my offer. Shaking and crumbling. Why is this better than what we have? It quite simply is not. Imagine the last piece of music you composed or listened to. Now, imagine an apex predator regurgitating it in the dusk of your twilight years. I yearn for it to ache. Bleeding from the ears and eyes. No red manifesto, no yellow hybrid of anarchy, no graffiti upon the walls. Your appalled applause, I thank you.
The Time You Called My Bluff
Your evaluation please. Order responsibility and a side of hysteria. For there once was a parrot. Of silver plumage and reddened eyes. Eternally rabbiting on about romance and other cancers. Romantic ideals and weeping angels and et cetera. One rainy day he - no she (for that is more evident and prudent) – sought the treason of the gallery. Winds of gusto and plumes rained and reigned. Gazing into the eyes of a painted fragment of a stranger long since perished she wrote and ferreted for metaphors and analogies for such a cascading and malicious disease. Until a tiger paused upon passing with stripes of unyielding heroics and other nonsense. He handed the parrot a feather and said, there is no cure for stupidity.
Heaving and heaving. That person on the train. Raw and exposed before you. No, that person from down the way. Or your own mother or brother, what do I care? Lust drizzles as though a wet t-shirt contest. Aflame from ten thousand candles and suddenly obtuse. Pornographic and vile, yet you watch with a vivid mentality. This caprice! Oh, what irony! Would the accountant endeavour as much with fifty and ninety-nine? Semen soaked tissues and your own shame. But why? Apportion such frenzy with a stranger. Nature screams for release. Louder and louder. Collide with the windows and so climax. And then hush, for the children are nearby.
The Desire for Moral Guidance
Oh, help! I despair! For pages of crimson told of atrocities and hypocrisy! I cut my fingers on the folds. Seemingly, this was more important. I hear tell of a housing crisis and a far-flung war. Yet my finger bleeds. How could one possibly touch the screen with drops of hypocrisy! Horror and trepidation upon the telly, but my finger requires bandaging. On the streets, hungry and cold, and my finger burns when the air irritates it. Raped and pillaged, said the man. But what of the bacteria in the cut? Perhaps a joke or three to distract me. I laugh unnecessarily at the terrible one-liners. And I hear screaming in my sleep. Fuck, my finger, for the bandage renders it impossible to stuff into my ear.
The Death of Religion
But God can’t be dead if he ne’er existed at all. Concluding at the beginning. Steroids in the race to the end. And do revoke your own medals, you swine. By howling tears and gag reflexes. The objectification of the objectively untouchable. Water and blessed be! Choking on the waters of the unredeemable. Redemption for heresy, and I say nay! Rain drops on a tin roof, as your footsteps echo in the halls. Echoing pleas of cessation and fear. A devotion to fear. A prayer for fear. But water and blessed be! Satan himself would not so dare. Hail Satan, for reason and practicality! With the collision of reason hardly even mentioned as yet! Hydrogen and oxygen molecules, and blessed be! Salvation in the despicable, and blessed be!
The Apple of my Eye
How ironic! I press my fingers into sin and tepidly tap. Increasing in mania I loose my compass. Southwards perhaps? Loosing sensibilities and all reason I too become mechanical. More frigid than the luge I am forced down. Gaining momentum and tap, tap, tap. The quick brown fox, indeed! Logs and other shit, indeed! Racial discrimination, indeed! Or credit cards and other ways to whore oneself. I will not sign my name, oh no! Let me evaluate you, accept you, enslave you. Eve was poisoned and deep in debt. Adam was too busy plotting his own suicide for the electricity spikes. Plastic gods, like condoms, break in their thousands, producing more imbecilic irony. Horse shit and other more pleasant smells. Unboxing a meme (improperly used) and an eight year old with a phone. Data charges may apply. The tree of knowledge offers no Wi-Fi.
The Quest for Harmony
Once upon a time, in a pile of refuse, there lived a hermit. Slaggish and as an unrefined lunatic, he rambled and ne’er excused himself. For what use is quality when there is quantity? Quantified numbers and emotions, boxes and checklists. Ever drunk and ne’er sober, he was occasionally insightful, yet ever full of general fuckery. Writing, yet unable to pen his name, he scribbled on walls for prosperity’s sake. And ever undecided on the moral, he had a tale nonetheless. Pandemonium and tempests raged internal. Falling through the sands he was lost. For order and harmony were the delusions of his inebriated mind. A life lived.
The Socialist Left
Insisting upon equality for the haggard and the tidy, a man was rejected by society for socialist inclinations. Dogmatic and stuck in the mud, left and right polarised him. He sank into depression and vanquished his own values in an implosion of cheap gin. Painted red, his name was slandered. For in their eyes communist and socialist, tomato and tomatoe. Left, left, left. And reason left the conversation. Too many pragmatisms and not enough humanity. Pigs and dogs and weirdos and fanatics and other such labels. Conversing on deaf ears and celebrating hypocrisy! For what a wonderful present your recycled toys are, born of the blood of the former red. Not a reflection to be seen, a mere shadow of what could have been. And what irony, again! So much irony today! Shades of the same palette, they threw balloons of paint at each other – blues, reds, blacks, yellows and greens – until all was the confetti of a madman. And we yelled, Holi!
My most sincere apologies and insincerities. For why are you so displeased and pained? I am you, and you are me. Carbon in the abyss. The words, and not I, bemuse you. In a different order they may be poetic. Such poetic lamentations from the bedside of the depraved and the ill. Take me at my word that I took my medications today, unlike yesterday. Oh, to hear me yesterday! I too am a radical and leftist dog, bordering on the criminal! Or perhaps you are not, for I ne’er asked your opinion. Please find it below. Attached in the email of your ridicule and spite, I too may take offence! Please, offend me! I relish in your hate. Born of the melancholy and the deeply confused, I too walk alone this February afternoon. I listen to the minors on the fence as though they are politicising with me. We may speak different tongues, but I assure you they were most agreeable and disagreeable, as is preferred on a miserable day.
As the derailed train, my direction and momentum falls trackside. Collapsing atop the vine of my own addictions I cease to see the words I write, or type, upon the page, or screen, whichever is more pleasing to you. Counting the stations to my stop, I wonder if I am dying. Rationality dictates it to be a truth. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine and ten. Twelve syllables. Twelve moments of time I just squandered. What of other truths? Is beauty a truth? Of perceptions and heightened realities? Or is it but insular rules? Is love a truth? Of unconditionality and the most terrible beauty? Or is it of conditionality? Can one quantify truth? Surely, it cannot be qualitative. What is the quality of your truth? And what is the quantity of your lies? Upon your reckoning what will you testify? Not at all a religious antidote, but of life itself. Where did you stop? Where did you derail? Where did you fall? Why?
My eyes mirrored in the dappled grey skies. Angst and regret raining down, and other such clichés. A sudden desire for the heat of the Sahara, or the frosty blast of the Arctic. Or tomorrow sans the weather. What of that! A blank canvas for Gaia, or whoever dictates the weather. A regurgitation of clouds, as I dictate, upon the canvas. Or words falling upon the keyboard. As rain! Or as last night’s lasagne. I spy a whale in the clouds, adrift and abeach. I too am stranded, floating in the great above, and shit! One becomes vertiginous at the very thought! For what if the earth where the sky, and the sky the earth? What if your words, though seemingly vibrating for eternity, and the light reflected off of you, were inconsequential? A fading star, and you die. But, perhaps I am reborn from the atoms I leave behind! Atoms. Billions upon billions of atoms. In the sky, and in the earth. Until the end, where we lay, ephemeral.
The Moment You Ceased Reading
Or I ceased listening. Learnt behaviours, one most suppose. Controlling your own kismet, or relinquishing and deferring? Hair and makeup crafted for a function, we are together from endless shores. Why do you suppose those outside the norm are so praised? Why is the familiar so banished? Why do we even bother? Hearing but not listening. With respect to my behaviour, I’ve not an excuse. And fuck! Fuck the words and the voices! I read of your glory and genius, and I felt dishonoured by my own feudalism. Discourse and discourse. I am no philosopher of economics, nor bureaucrat of thought! Pressure and a lack of oxygen. Change… if only for a blessed few. (I vow upon my own rotted corpse that I gave a shit).
Dinner proposes ethical dilemmas. Aside from my repulsion and dismay at the prospect of slaughtered fellows, which wine shall I sip? Do I thirst for a hit of pepper? A plum finish? A liquorice note? A symphony of dipsomania. The conductor dictates the tides, as the Moon. And society so campaigns for his dismissal. Dismissals… the politics of dinner, the feast of politics. For carnivore, omnivore or herbivore? How many bottles before one is tarnished and signed by the erroneous artist? Equilibrium and other falsehoods. And fuck it, my day was not born of glorious sunshine.
And I am undone. A sailor’s slipknot so failed. I tire of this dialogue and the rest. Fuck the chapters and the lost meanings! I am the life of mammals, decaying flesh and thwarted nooses. I am a fossil, a relic, of a bygone procrastination. I am epitomised in the decline of the West. Of decadence snuffed, of denial and chaos. I am caught red-handed, as guilty as the last. I am incoherent and in dismay. Sobriety is my sin and intoxication my saviour. For I am a saint of unholy proportions.
There is none.
#prose #poetry #originalprose #originalpoetry