Smile, stutter, and don't forget to
leave a good tip, those are the rules. But I've never been a team
player. I like to pretend she dances just for me, but I know she only
dances because her father never loved her. I like to imagine her skin
was created just for me, but I know she only gives it to me because
she doesn't know what it's worth. So I feel like I need to give her a
gift. And this gift of mine is an offspring of my imagination, a
child of my little black crayon. I give her a little man to keep her
safe, and I give this little man long arms and long fingers to keep
her warm, and he has a simple face to show her kindness.
Ancient words grant me solace, and the
bleak cement is my only friend. Midnight has come and gone and I
still dance around the fire, though the embers dwindle and the smoke
is thin. She shows me her inner clockwork and her steam, but I wish
she'd give me access to her dreams, dark as they are. She offers
herself up, like a sacrifice, telling me the numbing of my pain is
all that matters, I will not let her erase herself in the name of
kindness.
And the priestess tells me there is the
ghost of a little girl in my kitchen, and face with no features on my
ceiling, but he's just alright. And she tells me that there is also a
demon in the corner and he watches me sleep, so I give him a good
show, wink. So I sit and watch my old life burn away, acrylic ash,
and colorful fires dancing away as I suffer from delusions of
existence. I do a cartwheel and lie in the grass laughing until I
piss myself. Then I sit up and vomit all over her feet, and the
priestess tells me not to be ashamed for what is in me. She tells me
I am walking a fine between brilliant achievement and wretched
chaotic lunacy. She tells me that there is nothing loose in my
wiring, and that all these others simply spew lies and half-truths.
And this little one I know, she went
from gold to scarlet and back and forth without ever losing her way.
She commends my voice and raises my spirits. And we made a holiday of
fantasy, and a game of idleness. And this slender one I know, she
went around in circles and to and fro without ever getting dizzy. She
fills my belly and tried to help to let go of the burden of
stagnation. And their mother is always a friend with a word and ready
to listen, never flinching. This little one I know made a covering
for my song and a pattern for my voice, and the slender one dances to
my songs and their mother offered me a home and a second life.
There's one that speaks to me through
pixels and colors, not with sound or voice. But she's so much like
me, I have a hard time seeing where I end and she begins. I told her
I am not a good man, but she still comes closer. I told her I'll try
to keep safe, even from myself, and still comes closer. So I light a
cigarette and breathe out in to the ether, hoping one of the
hundredfold gods might give me a sign. She frightens easily and she
won't back off from my eyes and my teeth. I melt her down and put in
her a syringe, inject her into my veins, infecting her with my blood.
Her screams are muffled by the pounding tempo of my heartbeats, I use
her up, and spit the residue on a church steeple, one more broken
girl in a pile of bodies. She's so young, was so young, this
realization hits me like bricks, and I am getting dizzy. So young and
so dry, this isn't what she was supposed to be. So I make her a
solemn oath, a pledge of allegiance to her breast and her soul, she
can sleep in my shadow and take comfort in my mind, but only if she
promises not to kiss me again.
Refracted light blinds me against the
pale sky and dancing stars. Compared to a dream, nothing feels as
real as it should anymore. My shadows are skewed and misshapen,
constructing a form that is both strong and appealing. Severed from
solidarity, and turned inside-out, my mind becomes scaly and cold
blooded, and so I remain ever as I was and as I've never been. Right
hand stained crimson, and the left hand blue and icy, and neither one
are instruments of creation anymore. Destruction and reduction are my
favorite pastimes it seems, but I am trying to claw my way out of
Purgatory and into the Autumn sunlight.
I stand naked for the world to see, but
no one is looking, they've all got their noses in the pockets. So I
scurry and scramble trying to reach Nibiru before the sun sets. They
throw acoustic guitars and harmonicas my may, and when that doesn't
work, they start hurling hymnals as I pass. I don't slow or turn my
head, I just hold my head high and speak their language by blowing
raspberries at them as they toil in shadow and neon lights. They
grasp at my ankles and pull my hair, but I will not be denied my
apotheosis. Finally after one hour and thirty-five minutes I ascend
into heaven, passing Elysium, and Valhalla, as I glide ever upwards
into Paradise.
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