They spoke amongst themselves. Boisterous youths capable of doing good,
deciding that it wasn’t in fashion. How they would dabble, dip and
diatribe. An inquiry from one to another. Unanswered, an outsider
speaks up to help. He is quickly stabbed to death by dagger eyes.
The pain deep to his mind only then did it become flesh. A
throwback. The winds of change remain silent. Single tear forms in
a lemur’s soft eye. An iridescent baptism giving way to nourishment for
all as he crumbles, decomposing; never to share the phoenix fanfare.
Eventually he was found to have a Christ complex and an exhibit of
tortured
souls dangling by piano wire on his walls.
“Who was this man?” the governor called, insipid pollen still dusted and
clumped in his tangled beard. “Where, why, how did it come to be that he
was he? And not another?”
Desired to be a writer but realized at a young age that nobody wanted to hear
what he had to say. It was mere dentistry, a way of living while filling
the holes. It started as a game maturing and, not developing, enveloping
into a larger frame of mind. First, the wicked ones, then the old.
And the new. Again, it didn’t matter in the least. All were
game. It wasn’t just for fun it was a way of life.
Phillip
McGuire, a randy sort of chap with one eye and perpetual erection, took leave
of life in a mistakenly simple way: he killed himself. It wasn’t
fully understood why he did this only that his last words were “thank you, Bermuda. The only thing
I regret has pants spoken on the clim.”
Kimton, his mistress, was a lascivious bitch, followed Phillip like a dog in
heat. Hadn’t realized that he had died. Thought the blood was hers.
Many years before, they had met at the shopping mall. Phillip was working
as a Santa Claus. Kimton, at the razz of her peers, was sent to dictate
her wish list to Captain Kringle unbeknownst what she would soon find. A
Polaroid moment. Wanton grasp and besot of pleasure, Kimton fluttered
about, a dark dove over flavent hills. Vanilla? It was
chocolate. A figure of immense contusion (intrusion). Have violet
will travel. The poor man's silken velvet. Salmon moist to touch
hath distended eruption. She was the first to succumb to his way of life,
but failed to wear piano wire. She was merely there to play plumber and
clean the pipes. Habitual roadside service, she helped Phillip decorate
the walls.
“It is essential to suffer. (One must) remember
all great artists suffer. We all must create. Therefore we all must
suffer. In reality if one lives, one suffers. It is written in our
genes. Even the fabricated children that mope about in retail halls.”
It was once thought that some great god would protect us from evil, but what we
were never taught was that this god had to protect us from ourselves.
(Authors note: while scribing this verse, blood composed of caffeine, a dove
settled upon my polyester shoulder pad and whispered that the only true evil
was vanity and that with vanity we must all contend).
When I was a child, a child that I was not then, but now am and had been before
this time, I found a secret place to think. Loose earth, stone, dry
skeletal bones of wood and tar. All times of the day the taste of sawdust
filled the air. The tiny specks played within the beams of sunlight that
pierced through the ragged tarp above. I perched upon the bones and
watched the men working down the hill. Like a bird I would advance to the
next highest bough to avoid the hunters’ sight. I would sit falling into
my own mind. The pictures that would come to pass. Carefree
childhood soaring through the clouds above, chasing dragons to their doom down
darkened paths of adolescents. Rabid soul searching in the mirror for
salvation. I was found to become lost in my own decrepitude. A
dreamer trapped in his own dream. The days would end, giving way to
bitter cold and shadows.
Released my eye to find a way in the world. It never returned.
No comments:
Post a Comment