The Great Unwashed

Standing over pseudo-human flies that caught fire from hovering over a pond made of gasoline tears. The smell of vomit in my hair – the whole towns gonna blow. The broken down building windows just reminded me of cracked teeth. yellow teeth. windows lit yellow. Crescent moon nail indentations inside my palms while I dreamt of cathedrals and chandeliers above candle lit rooms. I made up medical classifications for the things that had no explanation. Sleep disorders in which I’d embodied martyred saints. The three chambers of my reptile heart could always take the beatings. As a child my mother would dampen a washcloth and pat at my swollen red lips: the signs of an on coming fever. So i began to paint pictures of cancer upon meats; Steak’s with Bubonic Angioedema, the most expensive Veal’s adorned Leprosy. I picked the fruit and buried what was rotten below a tree, deep inside the dirt that nourish the tree of torture – life was screams – my feast was almost complete. Fists against skulls cracking like bonfire flames. I felt the incisions before they were made. Easy as falling through glass, easy as a knife in the side of everyone of my past lives. I new a man who begun to hear a voice demanding him to wake. He had become narcoleptic. He would wake from a slumber with a slew of words that he could barely force out of his mouth. ‘Exterminating angel. motif in my life. there is no juxtaposition of light and dark. wish I could remove my brain and soul for a bit and give it to someone to hold so I could have a deadwood sleep. just want to be held.’ Countless times he imagined himself sprawled out on a marble floor. collapsed in front of the fridge he had become too weak to walk to. He was a grown man yet wished his lovers bedroom door would open, that she would get thirsty, hungry, anything. Hoping that she would walk in front of the fridge noticing his worn out body, lift his lifeless limbs and rock him into nothingness. But it never happened. she just walked over him and made her way to the porch where she took her morning coffee. He felt weak. To be that helpless, hopeless, needy. Life was like being trapped inside one for those religious cards. Life was next to Jesus and the Shepard. life was next to Mary and her accumulation of tears out of miserable love and despair. They shot missiles like lightening into the sky from earth. it’s a war of the gods. ‘Come down Messiah, why are you hiding? nobody likes a coward or an Indian giver.’ Silence took over and a void began to open wide. Bruises began to form like tiny galaxies along pallid thighs.

This entry was published on February 20, 2011 at 12:22 am and is filed under Uncategorized. Bookmark the permalink. Follow any comments here with the RSS feed for this post.

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