It's a cool night tonight. I can't hear anything outside, no cars, no sirens, no distant shouting or parties or faint music I can't quite make out. There's hardly a car in the street and those that are, are parked and dark. There's no one on the street. It's cool, cool and quiet and peaceful and although the sun has gone down and it's certainly night, it isn't dark at all.
Merry Christmas, everyone!
Yeah, the resounding riffs and resonance of the music I play in place of something, anything that would replace my terrible keening, the while that scrapes itselfway from my voice. I can't breathe. I can't look in any direction without seeing myself.
I'm howling. The music masking the terrible sound of my futile, pathetic suffering.
And I dance. I feel the sounds make my body move and I'm not aware of the pulse as my legs and arms and neck and moves and moves and no one can hear the tears in my voice.
You don't understand what it is to fight and lose against the vision of phantasms. To sit in your own pool of madness and chokehold your way to an existence that god fuck you there is no choice but to adopt. Yes, I must.
You're right. I'm sick. I'm the one who cannot see or be what I'm supposed to be. The bar isn't even one I can see. Mother fuck it's worse by your claim of validity. You're right.
You're right. I'm the freak. I'm the one who's not seeing how it should be. I'm the one who's broken. You're the one who can see how it should be. Fuck me, I'm stupid.
I can't figure out if I'm supposed to vomit, if I'm supposed to die. If I'm supposed to end your suffering. I'm going to fight it. I'm going to know what I'm to do. I love you and that very love is what's poison to you.
Nothing will stop me. Nothing. It's the nothing that cannot stop me. I love you.
I love you.
I love you.
Was it her disappearance?
Has forever ever been so brief?
Was it a moist night in the elevator shaft?
Did that rat eat more than my jacket?
Was it fists and fists and my earnest face?
Who saw whom first?
Was it seeing myself in your eyes?
That made me shut mine.
Maybe it was a search at night, cloaked in childhood, searching for a crime and finding something colder, darker, and half-asleep.
Maybe the keening sound of The Family after hearing her pass on.
Maybe it happened over a game of Stratego. I never cheated, I didn't. I didn't. I didn't.
Maybe it was nothing at all.
I'm clutching my cell phone, sitting on the toilet and listening to the shallow echo of the plumbing gurgle and hiss. There's a tiny insect bugging me, buzzing and flirting with my eyes as I try to focus on the thumbs and glowing screen. I'm halfway happy in anticipation of a good, solid shit, but I already know it's not in the cards and my grip on the slice of tech undulates and turns into a surrendering caress. I'm fondling the fucking thing.
Awash in my tides of potentials, the possibilities I've created and the odds I worship seethe and break against me. I'm pushing, pushing, I want the shit out and I want a sensation of satisfaction and completion. The cell is silent and I'm half raptured by every instant of anticipation and fear. I don't want to fuck tonight. I do want to fuck tonight. I am so alone. I am so crowded. Give it to me, let me take it. Stay the fuck away, leave me alone.
The pressure and the intimacy of the moment sweeps through me and I'm awash in that cloud, that current of potentials. I have no idea not only what is going to happen (am I going to shit? am I going to die? am I mad? Is the phone going to ring? Who is the murderer?) but I surrender my sense of identity and allow the moment to rape and rape and rape.
The cell bleeps. I'm hammered back into realtime in an instant and I reflexively hit the 'read' button. It's a flirting, loving note about something meaningfully ephemeral. I feel like grabbing her hair and consuming her mouth. Her body is referenced and reflected on me and I am compelled more deeply than my body can appreciate.
I see her, and I see her, and I see her, and I see him, and I see it, and the objects are blended not as a mosaic, but as a scent. The clumsy and crude and cobbled together me, beautiful and unique as it is, recoils from the sheer complexity and depth of the experience and I am no more.
It's the breathing that helps me shit, and I'm happy to find the expulsion to be unexpectedly complete. When I look down I can see my hairy gut pulse with the echo of the effort, and the humble twist of my cock shrunken in a tangle of hair. I instantly wonder what the allure is. It is suddenly so quiet, such silence as this.
Sometimes in a moment there's a special kind of quiet that happens and for a moment all the resistance of the moment moves with me and like the moment between underwater and a breath of air above I feel the moment bat lashes at me and I fly in love.
Look at this creature and what is it and I cannot wait another moment for this train to arrive where is it and where am I and this thing sitting next to me what a stench and SHUT UP but the announcement over the station blares as loudly as the unwashed unclean the swarm the herd the crowd unerringly dodging as it collides with itself and I hear it moving more than I can see it SHUT UP those shoes why did you wear them and there is a woman peering through the glass searching for nothing while waiting for the next flag and none of it escapes me even when I shut my eyes and walk blind it feels a riptide as an echo of a gunshot memory
I think it's over
You think it's over
I think it's over
Oh god it's over