Whisper, whisper, and hiss, hiss. Blood
and blood, and thick piss. I wear black to feel strong again. I strut
and stroll, creep and crawl in the dark. Breathing like a dragon, and
seething like a lion. Pretending I am ghost, or fouler yet, a man.
And this little star hovering above my nose, she doesn't play well
with others. And this sinister thing clawing at my waist, he doesn't
know what to do. So I gallivant, like a drunken knight who can't
remember where he tied up his horse. Getting farther and farther away
from myself and the smiles of those I love. I pass empty tombs and
houses full of rotting corpses. No one waves goodbye, and no one nods
as I pass. But they sneer, oh they grimace, and they grumble, and
they spit, and they cuss. Then again, perhaps it is just my own
thoughts echoing off the tin and brick, and skin, and hair. But wait,
haven't I walked this road before? No, she walked it with me. No, no,
she didn't. She's dead, I killed her, and she'll remain in my skull,
bouncing about like a child throwing a tantrum. Scrapping and biting
at my raw nerves, and ripping and gouging at my teeth.
I tighten my grip on the idea of her,
and grit my teeth against the heat of her breath. Heavy hands and a
loose tongue, that's all I have to offer, and she closed the door in
my face. So I vomited teeth and flowers, and still she threw rocks
and screamed at me. So I turned my collar up against the wind, and
went back to dancing with that insane little super nova. We waltzed,
I think. We danced, I remember. We kissed, I pretend. We fell in
love, so I tell myself. But the gruesome truth is I slipped and fell
from heaven leaving her alone with a little man who laughs at
nothing.
So she blames me for what her life has
become. And I keep trying to tell her that she's dead, but the bitch
won't listen to reason. So I tried to speak nonsense, I tried to spew
chaos, and she wouldn't have any of it. She asks so much of me, and I
have so precious little to give. My manhood has become the widow's
mite, and my eyes are Judas' thirty silver pieces. I gave myself a
little kiss, and betrayed my own blood. But she's still the one who
cried “Eli, eli, lama sabachthani?!”. I am going to make some
promises, because I need something to break, and my mind cannot take
much more abuse. So here a little and there a little, I am going to
lance and drain what is left of my heart, damn, it's gotten so cold
in her mouth, but damn, she looks so good with red on her lips. At my
zenith, I can see everything, but at my zenith, I can understand
nothing. If Lucifer fell from heaven and from grace, where will I
fall to?
Earth and dust? Dust and dirt? Darkness
and half-remembered dreams are where I will abide forever and a day.
She tried to bite me, so I sewed her
mouth shut. She liked to glare at me, so I plucked out her eyes. She
isn't what she used to be. So I am asking myself, what do I want to
grow old with? A pile of flesh and hair with little beetles for eyes
poking out. Or something more real? You can only say I Do to
yourself. And until death, nothing can part you from your name. We
aren't meant to drool and leer at skin and bone only. We are meant
for more, I think. We grow old with a name, a laugh, a smile, a
color, and a sense of something deeper than our own shells to keep us
company as we drift in and out of the technicolored dreams we
conceive.
Dance, dance, they scream. Run, boy,
run, they imitate the snarls of apes and the hisses of snakes so
eerily reminiscent of my old voice. To quote a porter of some repute, "I love the friends I have gathered together on this thin raft." But do
they love me, I wonder. I make myself a fool too often, I think. But
I try to muscle up and hold my chin high, isn't that what man a does?
But I find myself stumbling around
again, to and fro, like a ship on stormy seas, I cannot make it home
tonight. So swivel, swivel, and swerve, and bob and weave, and trip,
then I lie there, looking up into the sky and I start to laugh. My
vision of the cosmic dance is clouded then, it's her face and hair
now filing my eyes. She smiles and offers a hand to pull me out of
this stupor, I hesitate, I have grown accustomed to the daze. But the
concern in her eyes is too real, so I reach up and take hold of her
ivory flesh and my heart starts as she lifts me up and out of my
nightmare. She stands there, all wintery light and lovely shapes,
looking me up and down. I know my pants are torn, and my shirt is
stained, and my shoes are nowhere to be found. But then, to my utter
shock, she giggles. In a sudden burst of something I've forgotten
there's a finger at my nose, a brief tap, a quick jab. And I am awake, awestruck. Doesn't she know men can't feel anything, doesn't she know
men are at the edge of beast and sanity, doesn't she realize I am
just a man? But this simple little gesture reminds of me something,
something I can't quite place. Then she turns and leaves, and I
remember it know. I race after her, and take hold of her shoulders
and shadow. This is what friends are for, I recall now. She brings
back to my mind the ancient wisdom written in blood and bile on brick
and cement: BEWARE OF THE DOG.
