stuff.
"And one day we will die
And our ashes will fly from the aeroplane over the sea
But for now we are young
Let us lay in the sun
And count every beautiful thing we can see"
-Jeff Mangum
Their signature. Her fingerprint's tattoo,
that he traced off the steam of the backdrop's dew
in a dream, covered by a screen of leaves of bamboo,
far from the scenes of the blacktop zoo.
Margaret stayed. Prostrate and laid,
being nipped on her rosebud nape,
tickled pink, smiling in the mocked verite,
on some thatch of strawberry hay.
Her lace unclasped, unlocked,
and garter sprayed and cast across,
heaped on hydrangeas. They watch sweat beads drop
as perfect strangers, as prescient connected dots
in lock stepped procession with each breath
hushed in tune as a sun slipped under to
a slim summer moon with their skin flushed of hue.
And with each sober touch
the film shutters through, before it eventually molts to dust.
Sometime (w/ Certain)
Certan then Pancake, Alternating
Sometimes I sleep in my queen-sized like the Vitruvian Man,
sheets coming off the corners from this toss-and-turner moving again.
I'm untucked. Loosely pretend like I'm unspooling a thread.
I'm undone. But my sweaters don't sing,
they itch and require dry cleaning.
And I always preferred Pinkerton for its broken-wing butterfly screaming.
And I always rehearsed dry-heaving at my suit-and-tie meetings.
I plan to die dreaming. I prefer no one be there to wake me up.
My security blanket fort has tank support and paintball guns.
Sometimes I feel the weight of she in a mattress.
I explain to a shadow the root causes of a hedonist practice,
with phantom cigarettes perched in the curves of my ears,
with all these nervous arrears trying to apologize for the seeds of her malice.
This whiskey drag is for you. And the next one, too.
Reflect on a reflection, the mind creates a passion sex won't do,
another misstep towards perfection, that I dance for you
in lockstep practice, the motion of forlorn enchants a fool.
Wake up and hope for a new refresher course in each sunset,
already nostalgic for the regrets I haven't done yet.
Sometimes I awaken in the foggy morning sun amid a choral hum,
leaving whispers on my pillow from last night's absorbent rum.
My eyes are boarded shut. My windows open to the allergens
carried in by the same prairie wind that led the carol sing.
And you're never here. You've avoided me and my pollenation,
as though it's my choice to be empty, hollow, vacant.
I leave your mug out, with stains on the rim circling like vultures.
As I percolate, my nerves escape:
Two creams, one stir from brain convulsion.
But the coffee's never hot enough to burn my morning hopelessness,
and the bed beckons, calling for a return to snores and loneliness.
A smattering of blacked out jots and missives,
non-specific, aimless, scribbles about 'haunted visions'
Sometimes emasculated, nonsense awkward glances
Midnight coffee dances, Marlboro read and over-saturated
In this half-awake session with a glass on my tongue as a weight
Every spoonful weighs a ton, forgetting the sun is at stake
Empty tundra, procrastinating, hoping the thunder abates
Spent all this time adrift only to find there's nothing special under the wake
Searching for depth with my restlessness as a barrier
It's a weakness, masquerading as character
The bottom drawer of my bedroom dresser is empty.
So am I. Oppressive, resenting my coalescing stressors and envy.
Every day I pull the shade down on my mirror,
and I can't see myself anymore.
Answer myself at the door. Fancy myself for a whore.
These tantrums won't help, but the single-malt Scotch might.
The main goal this evening is to tickle my balls right.
The main goal most evenings is to fall asleep eventually
and dream and see the world for a better place than it's meant to be.
Retracing what's left of me, finding nothing to hunger for,
and I'll awaken again tomorrow cold, clutching my comforter.
Depression hits compressionless. I could sniff those grams,
but instead I drink those ounces. I'm no 20th century schizoid man.
I'm not special, I'm just writing in lithographs and pictograms
I'm not unique, I just enjoy slipping past the mission plan.
Sometimes I get drunk. No, all the time I get drunk,
I spelunk into funks, enjoy the heartburn
of sipping flasks, a tipsy man,
and not giving a fuck when the next card turns.
sleeping until noon, asking if something is up.
I'll wear an ill-fitting cardigan today, why not
You can wake. I'll just try to champ the championship of dry wrought.
Sometimes I wake up cradling a seven-fifty milliliter,
with the cap on just enough not to spill on my already-filthy T-shirt.
Sometimes I don't wake up at all until the a.m.'s turned to evening,
and my nervous feelings curdle into fervent, worthless seething.
But I'll never break these habits. The fox can chase the rabbit,
but talk is just a language for the lost who pray on Sabbath.
And I've already found God, but she left me like all the rest.
I fall depressed in Autumn's nest. My whole life is awfulness.
It's fucking whiny. Catcher in the Rye. Holden steady.
I'm playing Jack. Two of a kind. And it's time to fold already.
I'll sleep to acoustic versions.
And wake up to a dead laptop.
My bemused diversion.
The sun it rises, it can't stop.
I'm not as deep as I get.
I'll write words about dreams I can't make up.
I sleep, then wake up. With regret.
@Zombie @dull boy @Darth Yoda @BWHAHA
I'm the often lost dreamer. Across. In the margins. Offing harlots and hauling off skeezers. Aloft. If I were to breathe or just cough you'd get lost in the features of the visage I've got. Sneeze. I could scoff and leave you bereaved in a jot or leaflet of some missive forgot. A footnote in the time that I've stopped. Period. Comma. Hakuna matata. My bravado is a myriad of serial dramas pressing keys in staccato. I need a mullato. Period assonance. God. I'm smart. Foreboding. You're Martin Brody in a collapsing ship. Floating. Tossing off passengers, flask on hip while the ocean yaws, sulking. I'm the maw. ->Period/Awkward Pause<-. Orator of the circle jerk,
Pale. (There's no Twist.)
Sixteen. Her raven hair sprayed against the native earth,
the bottom, she would say it hurts,
but she loved every thrust, the dew, and cicada's chirps.
----
Cheers. She often got startled by the glass's clink,
lost in a martini,
with the breath of a menthol and match's link.
Ms. 'Past the brink', the residuals of the waning soul,
Black dressed, with purple mascara and lashes pink,
she'd rather just stash her drink and remain at home,
with her bedroom floor lathed in mink and satin sheets
and a stainless pole. Then drink her vodka straight,
ovulate, and by nine succumb to a blackened sleep.
But she'd cave to the crutch
of the public. Alone, her depression wasn't pervasive enough.
She loved it. The needs of a wooden bar full of subjects,
sated a lust, and made her feel like a duchess. The ardent stares,
tending to like a garden square
and passive lisps of whiskey-tongued failed Bon Ivers.
Muscle bound or mops of hair, it's all the same when a whisper's impaired;
just moths in the air, dismissed with another flip of her hair.
Because they couldn't know her expression. All the lessons and lesions.
The predicate reasons for the "Well, it’s best I be leaving"s.
Everyone's lived twenty one years here, to earn a taste,
but not a one's lived hers, and how it permutates
and reflects every isolated act like some burnished plate
carried on her neck, slouched by a burden, burned in place.
"Everyone has a troubled past."
Yes, but not everyone who experienced lived it then fucking crashed.
And she had no time for macro takes,
when she only had one test run at life to machinate
the patterns of self doubt and shame,
and how one love can then douse the flame.
Possible suitors, a dozen a dime, could enjoy a fast life,
but she'd rather explore the depths of depression, and feel what that's like,
resigned to a familiar home, headstone in native earth,
soul at rest in cadence with cicada chirps.