once rambunctious, its down to the filaments, to tethers and frayed ropes. hanging by a thread or just hanging. dont expect me to sit there and watch you hang yourself, i was never into that kind of sport and frankly i find it boring. self mutilation is boring, self loathing is interesting to a point as long as there is some sort of redemption to go with it. but out and out masturbatory self-destruction, the kind that’s all tease and no delivery? no thanks, been there, done that, was once even the star of the show.
living is fucking hard. living with all the fucked up perceptions and paranoia and wild thoughts and incessant beckoning of the void is hard. that’s interesting. that’s the rabbit hole worth going down into. to be like that in a world this messed up. to be skin raked by barbed wire and douse yourself in the piss of this world and still, somehow still, write fucking poetry, shoot fucking film, do fucking whatever, to fucking go about the business of making art in the face of this shit, in the face of your own despair and the ugliness of the people around you.
that’s the good stuff. that’s the stuff worth living for. just to spit it in their fucking faces.
Category Archives: frags
abandoned pieces, fragments, scraps
all this practice
all this practice, all this saying, all this scrambling about. god i need a cigarette, it’s been so long. how many days now? three? four? it’s hard to tell here, they do little to keep us in track, they do much keep us from knowing. first they blocked out the windows so we couldn’t tell if it was day or night, but i tried to follow my own internal clock. waking and sleeping and marking the cinderblock during the intervals. who knows how off i had gotten during that first week. they just took us of our cells and repainted the walls.
… blech, i did this already with How it Was
her nails were jagged
where had it been something like this, something green and smooth like the skin of it, like the slither between the vines and she said nothing of it, she said instead her nails were jagged with remorse and he couldn’t help but pluck the skin off the bumps of his spine and feed it to himself and grow them back out again. the cycle repeats like the sun and the moon and the seasons where the winter chills her bones and his skin cracks open with icicles and while she fingers his veins he plays with the nerves beneath her scalp and she tells him, if it weren’t for the musk we’d have been done with this a long time ago and he laughs caressing her thigh, you lie to me again, he reached up and pulled a leaf that turned from green to red to orange to dead in his hands, let’s lie to each other again.
and there’s this thing
and there’s this thing between us, and even though i put it there i cannot seem to get rid of it but you want to ignore it and i can’t ignore it because i can’t seem to move it out of the way, out of my line of vision and i think every time you look at me it’s all that you see, this sorry state of a person, this weakling, this pathetic piece of shit, and i want to tell you i love you and i want to tell you i love you but all i hear is vomit coming out of my mouth, i hear myself saying instead, i’ve got all this vomit in my mouth, and i feel that’s all i am to the world these days, all this vomit in front of you, all this vomit you cannot stand.
she says
she says to him,
you live in the past, you live like you have no future
i’ve had better guys than this, i’ve had better dates
i don’t understand your drug problem, i don’t understand why you need to fix
i’m everything you need right here, right here in front of you
it isn’t me you should quit.
and he says to her,
i thought i saw something in you but my hands are too brutal
i’m a roller coaster gone all wrong, i’m a shotgun in the mouth
the closer i get to you, the more nothing is ever enough
everything i need this needle for, comes from straight between my hips
i am the lie i need to quit.
scramble
And sometimes it feels like breaking, like I’m scrambling
for pieces and they are all the wrong one, I don’t know
how to make them fit, I don’t know how to make myself
fit into you anymore and I want to, I so want
to, I’ve lost so much, I’ve already lost the pieces
that should matter, does it even still
matter that i lost you
some cracked mosaic
all these little fragments of a life real and imagined, of writing and the joy of it, of loose talk and even looser words, of half thoughts, half scenes, of couples on the rocks, of lovers on the mend, of gangsters and killers and clowns as children, of angst ridden poets, all of you, some shattered whole, some cracked mosaic, and i am happy in that, to have found you again my dear, dear old friend. you never did abandon me, and i had thought i could go on without you.
with nails, with teeth
when he handles her it’s all tufts of hair and tongues. it’s all push and pull and scorching heat. everything burns around her. it comes close to violence if love were not involved, if anyone can love anyone any more these days. it becomes like clawing, like trying to get at something that’s beneath the surface, just this side of the vein. and he’s been trying to get at it, with his nails, with his teeth, because he wants to show it to her, he wants to say, this is what i see when i am in you, this is what i imagine you to be, this is you. isn’t it beautiful? how long has it been since you were beautiful?
ever go away
and there are times when the skin is so thin and so real that i rake it over and over to get at what’s inside, to peel it off and see what’s inside, to separate the meat from the bone to feel what’s inside and all i find in myself are maggots and shit and despair like some new tomorrow will never come, like all the world’s roses are perched thorns out from under my chin, like the pressure in my head will never abate, will never grow tired, will never grow old, will never ever go.
bump in the night
a bump in the night makes everything all right.