He who wears the paper crown is king of the crackle. Unproven.
Brandy eyes see undressed lies in bed with contrived laughter. Soberly and dripping wet.
Reconfigured finger pops the luck. Guns drawn before Dawn has broken, down baby, damned lady, seated upside out, beltless, love bulging, bursting, with tenderness, lust and found in distinguished denial.
The one you use when you say everything in the noise of silence.
Crackled grief and textured tears, too salty for truth, takes you hard and easy when you cry below the waist…ed words of indifference.
The one I use when I am merely your reflection without my beating heart.
They judge a man by the shoes he wears. Clean as they come to darken his day. His skin is stainless brown. He wears a plaintive face that hides history in a half smile that holds memory. Of all and none. He walks in my direction, holding my gaze in his shaded eyes. Faded out of view, I turn my head to loosen the neck tie of my intrigue. A lit cigarette in a righteous hand grips him tighter than his laces. The smoke is heavy. I can’t see him as he is behind his pose. He walks on the shallow perception of the disdain that surrounds him. Cool knows the envy of the dull. His feet are subject to the ground that curves around the lies he was sold. About himself. He stops and makes the sign of the cross. Some incoherent unspoken words escape into the world with his nicotine soaked breath. He continues his walk on the concrete surreality, paved with unfurnished dreams and fleshed out fears. Without ever moving his legs.
What did you see? Only the lie of everything I thought I knew. About people I will never know. It is the silence that knows my heart best and honours my pain. No bullsweat. No story to trade for my crocodile tears that part reason from deeply felt confusion. Clearly seen. I still stare. Thirty nine times I was a candle to the flame of fallacy and waxed lyrical just for sake of saying something. And I will never know exactly which long words chased away the feline that stuck me with daggered eyes in my day dream. I never saw her enter the way she left us. But I am awake now with a loaded cock. Pulling on my love, I will not shoot to cure the disease of wanting to be inside her. Let it fester, as time tends to an immortal wound.
Wide shut while you were open. Wide open while he was shot. The trojan Horse is led to water by the willing eyes that woke the fears that do not sleep. Needy eyes. Too open to see. Too close to everything that distracts their vision and attracts their confusion. Order out of chaos. Death controls them. Annointed eyes with the oil of sleep. You fear what you can’t control. Love.
Found a throne for the uncommon man. A little rough. Greener surroundings are healthier than the hours unlived in hospitals full of throne rooms for the chemically altered, wired up to one level of existence. Parks do not service the bottom when the benches are occupied. Since I now operate on my own state of mind and manage a life of some worth between centres of healing or the placebo factories of private alternative health care, I spend what time I have accessible to myself to run errands for loved ones and I cook more than I ever did in my past life. Not too shabby. Not too clever. I like this throne. It digs into the bottom and thats as true to life as it gets.
….Bodies on loan, the numb heart is a tomb not a home. And where is temperance? How about the thriving mass culture of nihilism, and consumerism that sucks the light of the eyes that watch the world? Out of hollow bodies of mostly water. The blood is thinner than the skin.Thicker than the blade. Shallow minds drown in deep waters. How about the indifference that festers in the wounded, heard in communal banter? How about socially engineered depravity? When they say the world is yours but the choice is an option of poisons. The opiate of the unheard and unseen is in the proverbial air we breathe. What about the trigger finger of apathy that doesn’t consider the epigentic possiblities awakened and passed on? How about the spiritual? Cause everything is seemingly permissable. Who dares infer the questions yet forsake the answers? Holy rollers attract the wrath of Moths but that’s an aside. Like an Elephant in a room of mirrors, it remembers everything it sees but it only sees itself. Or a version of itself. Reality distorted. Humanity filtered, but at least the filth is honest “and ugly as ever.” Its yellow. Its black. Its of it. Or on it. Its a riddle. Its a word. It speaks violence. It calls to silence. It’s the journey of tears that travel inwards. Some might say its terminal. An incoming extinction level event. What law can tame such pain? Such life? Legislation doesn’t govern the heart. Mothers will cry tomorrow as they did yester and today. How do we stir up vision? How do we nurture hope? The seduction of evil has a catchier beat. Still. Still….love can afford that well worn idea, unvarnished, without eloquence, or enviable style. A reason to believe in the sanctity of life. Perhaps if they learn to love, themselves, not the image in the black mirror, and steel. Still. If love could find it’s way through the numbness, and seep into their pain. If love could meet them in the grime, unadorned, and address that pain. And wrestle with them. And hold them. Pinned down by love. The brutality of the embrace they couldn’t afford. Just a thought that crossed my mind. The loose change of pennies, are loveless. And we can not afford not to love them.
I fell into you. A lucky catch. You caught me before my eyes landed on yours. Wide open. Iris to nose. I was born wild before I lived in you, but I was so eager to escape into a world with more breathing space to fail. Now when you crawl on your feet to get a word to me, I crawl on my knees to serve you.
Teenage dreams were purple, I wore blue and saw red when it got to me. Temper the beast with green, and watch it grow on the other side of the grass I inhaled. Roll without it. Like luck. Washed out. Like denim. Once or twice. Leaves and lies.
Teenage love was letters sent to her mother’s address, with words that spied on her thoughts. She thought. And she’d reply in kind and cursive, signed with a four letter promise of peace and hair grease.
Teenage fears were dying young without knowing that I ever was. I stole and ran, got caught once. A cast hand was clutched by desperation. Who writes poetry for a mute heart? If they didn’t kill me in Harlesden then it wasn’t my time.
Teenage hope was a prayer and a song to quell an asthmatic larynx and shoot hoops to high school glory. It was trying to master lessons of speech therapy and fulfill the prophecy of a Physio. A narrow Queen’s Park corridor was a palace of practice to double dribble and carry my fate quietly.