That face, those eyes, those lips
pursed with that grimace reminding me what I am. A little worm, a
useless little creature, so far beneath that gaze. I struggle to
breathe when I hear that voice, or those footsteps in the distance,
my heart beats out of my chest, and it flops on the floor, but I
can't chase after it, not when the oven's fires are burning hot.
So
I'm just a little worm, nestled in the mud, dreaming of cotton and
chrome and just a little warmth. Hollow words, and hollow meanings,
nothing much is said, yet all they do is talk. The skin of my hands
still bears that scent, like onions, or servitude, or lack of focus,
they all kind of smell the same.
Slash, slash, slash, breathe
deep, try to get a grip, and slash some more. Plastic bags or my own
soul, what am I cutting? I can't remember anymore. My back is bent,
with exhaustion or dread, who knows? There's that voice again. Damned
if I do, and damned if I don't. What a world, what a lovely little
grey dead thing. I used to have color once, have a rhythm in my step,
a flash in my smile. Oh well, all is in devotion to that thing that
doesn't exist, in denomination; manifold.
That girl, that
damn wonderful girl, whispering, whispering in my ear. I can't take
it, no more. I can't be this thing she wants me to be. A happy,
virile, wonderful, colorful thing. I'm all gone out, drained, a pen
with no ink, no words to say, no pictures to draw, no cartoons to
sketch, just scratching, poking holes in the paper, a big empty nothing.
They take, and take, and take, and ask
more than I ever had to give. What life was in me is gone, taken by a
corporate god, a demon in a pinstripe. My balance is broken,
spiraling out of control, the universe isn't a rainbow, it's acid
rain, eating the paint off the limo, the sports car, the Mercedes,
the paint job of our dreams, rusted away, the bare bones reality of
paying the gas bill.
When I feel the fire rise in me, the
old music pounding away in my soul, then I remember the task at hand,
the stains, the fucking mountain of dirty plates, and the fires are
extinguished, washed away like half-assed graffiti. I can't even cry
anymore. Can't cry out, no strength is left in me, no fight, nothing,
a hollow man left to walk back and forth at the whims of the paying
public.
Maybe one day I'll die, and then I'll be where sea
meets shore, and the sun goes up and down, and all is word and
thought, then maybe then, I can have peace, then maybe the, I can do
my work, make my worlds, and shout until my lungs burn, and then
maybe then, I can smile again.
