This.
Everyone of us was a we before we became an I.
We need a mirror.
If the mirror is not there, we are never a we, thus, becoming an I is complex.
Chronic hypervigilance is pre I subversion of the part of the we that might separate later, but can’t because it adopts a perpetual state of subservience to the needs of the other side of the mirror.
Dry heat stains
The walls of the mouth
Grasping at words.
Holding them back
Deep in the gut.
Mourning sick,
Sourness fills my senses.
Standing.
Frozen.
Hands thrust down at the earth
Palms open.
Fingers clawing at the air.
Chin dipped, eyes raised.
Taunting.
Bring it.
I have been afraid long enough.
I have sampled fear,
Dined at its table,
Filled my belly with its designs.
I would taste something new.
And even if it kill me,
I will overcome the parasite
Gripping tightly to the back of my neck
Whispering futility in my ear,
Needling into my spine,
Reminding.
Fear has a particular flavour
Nameless,
It smooths the tongue
Filling the mouth with heat.
Fullness,
But no taste.
Panic ebbs,
Fear still flows.
I will try again tomorrow
Even the word sarcastic
isn’t what it seems.
Cynicism is a hobby.
Making more out of things
than intended,
a career choice.
A single shining light,
eschewing gloom,
carving a little niche
out of the unlit.
Pointedly put out
that tiny declaration.
What it knows,
can hurt you.
Takes more to learn,
than it does to squeeze,
the string between your
thumb and index.
Slight burning sensation.
Over soon enough.
Residue.
Film.
Greasy transfer.
All the world,
and other such,
feel good bullshit.
What are we.
The residual filmy left over,
greasy transfer, from the passing,
of Named Moments of Meaning.
Don’t hate it,
don’t fight it.
Accept it is,
without doubt.
It is, without doubt,
that we began the,
entropic existential ecstasy
our fathers called progress.
Name that moment,
carve that into a mountain,
stab a flag on top of that,
pen a song to last the ages,
If entropy doesn’t get you,
plastic fantastic smiles will.
After we are gone,
the City will not remember us.
Stretching her hands,
uncrimping her limbs,
blood will
slowly return to her streets.
Our blood, dried,
distant cries,
conflict, curses,
violent endings,
washed clean by thick,
returning, urban life-force.
At first,
the animals will avoid her,
Then, one of them will creep in,
feast on grass greener than green,
fed by the iron soil.
Earlier, before warm furtive feet,
explore where we strode as kings,
we killed each other.
No reason required.
Tear your memories,
tears no longer
embrace them.
This City.
Story never ended,
unwritten,
wind whispering through,
deserted streets,
rivers of wild grass,
hear our last song,
on lush stems.
This City.
Sadness speaks your name.
After we are gone.
The lights will never change.
Peak hour,
happy hour,
earth hour,
pick one.
Matter’s not.
Clock stopped.
Forever five minutes
til midnight.
She watches as you walk in,
and, she watches, as you walk away.
Untouched money, lies waiting.
Returning clothing, hair, face, feelings, feet
walk out the door, taking money
Afterthought. Seemingly.
Reduced to a metaphor, simile,
minor sub plot bit part character
jammed between advertisements for
whiter teeth, more regular evacuations,
and guilt remediating opportunities for charity.
The role matters little,
you just paid her.
Paid. Her.
Go back to the part of your life,
you’ll promise you would never,
put up for sale, and softly, secretly,
prepare your sneer for,
the next time you see another,
walk in, and away.
She watches.
And.
She watches.
Pray the last ray of light strikes you,
Day dies, deadly night stalks your back.
Trees spin across the silent shafts,
tweaking its path, will it reach you?
Fall into darkness unending.
Backwards, fowards, nought matters,
sensory void softly whispers lies.
Cold would take you,
if fear did not hold you.
The moon is hours away,
morning, longer.
The world turns slowly for the unforgiven.
Tightly shut eyes flash snippets,
of yesterday, at you, and at you.
Yes (ter) day frames the sign,
“Let the memories begin.”
And, if, tomorrow ever comes,
it will be, a small world, after all.
Too clever.
I don’t like the title.
Audience interaction.
Conversation.
Between you.
And I.
Here.
I will begin.
…
See.
Pause.
If I was witty,
selling something,
or in strong possession
of something rare,
I would pause,
for response.
Rather.
That pause.
Unfilled.
Stop congratulating me
For living my life well.
The gaps in your hollow praise
Rush vapidly across the stale waste
Of your auto-erotic self talk.
The thin veneer of shiny words
That escape the storm of your
Closed fisted ejoculations
Dry quickly where they fall.
I don’t want a medal for living
My life.
Confirming your solipsistic self-directed
Slang bores me.
Don’t mistake this quantity of words
As regard of thought or welfare.
the title suffices.
and.
What is more.
So do I.
