Category : Prose Toggle
There you are.
So there you fucking are. That euphemism, the one in the corner and the one that sits over on the pyre, you’re all lit and on fire with all the moves and the smooth versions of your speech.
I have this impression of a moment – its there and wandering in the cornice. The shed out the back where the possums lay and argue -
… but, I digress
“If you are wondering whether you’ll have to stand vigilant with pencil and paper until the end of your days – you wont. Writing things down is only a way to get started, like training wheels on a bike. The mastery over our dark thoughts and feelings quickly becomes a habit. As the grey cells are reprogrammed, the left front lobe is trained to master negative emotions a tenth of a second after they first appear. As this ability grows, the bitter feelings disappear.”
Stefan Klein, The Science of Happiness
Yet where is this mastery that is spoken of? Where are the pillars of compressed and reprogrammed emotions? Where is the knife with which to slice open the package in all its glorious wonder?
I am the cat in Schrödinger’s box.
I live in a house whose structural integrity is unsound. The foundation of concrete cracked, the beams bored throughout by the mindless crawl of tiny thoughts remebling white backed ants. The windows long since glazed over and curtains hanging tattered.
I need to edge out the science of over performing. Over correcting and over-relating to all those things that have come and scraped up against the wilderness of my fingertips – the barren, tender little bites of temple touch there at the end of my taste.
Is it axiomatic, quietly now – is it tragic of asymmetry in me to want to take those cardboard cutouts and swords made of rolled up paper and poke tem into the recesses that hold my together? That I want to stab myself with the edges of a thousand letters,and pour vinegar over the multitude of papercuts that they leave in their wake?
Often times you must actually decide what it is that you need – is it a flower? Oh no, is it an interpretive dance? Oh lah. Is it a goat? Or a Geet? or a little, perrrrrrfect piece of sheep in a bowl of tender red curry?
So the stipulation is thus: lubricate my mind. Let it hold water. Let the holes in the basement of it chew through the world. If there is no lubrication, then possibly try sand. For all that have read upon the mighty religion that is Sandology, will know of that whch I speak – your life, in a grain. blue, white, yellow, imperial or silica consistant – not quite a lubricant, but at least you can surf down it.
Hearts racing like a gunfire cotton shot, fingers are twitching and the rumination of the belief that I hold here: somewhere, down inside on the internal mechanism of my life is somewhat skewed: Im waiting, like a twigless matis to ponder to pounce and quite possible renounce the welfare of anything that comes towards me.
Im not ready for change. Im not ready for the knowing or the unknowable collapse of turns and shaking darkened evenings. Theres only sudden belief, suddenly relief and the machinations of those around me that cant seemt o turn themselves into the real.
The taste – dust – motes, minor penetrating permutations of perplexing colors thorugh the liquid, hitting the sides of my throat with scratches that have only seconds of sensation. Around the lid, there are flecks – Red, upon translucent, smudged and clear.
I can hear my breath down there, down below – the liquid drench of my stenched out forehead resting upon the pillow, and i wipe it down – inste3ad, turn the pillow over, take the sweat and hide it away and my arm is outstretched in a cumbersome fashion, the other arm underneath me and numb – arm
o —  —–o [_] out. stretched over tow ards the glass, and I beat the hand, the tips of my fingers, right there against te matress – my body sprwaled in a taunt-tight whirl of masticated breath – breath. breath. i am breathing int he scent of isimyaki, the scent of dolce and gabbana, the scent of joop long ago stained ont he pillows where the stains of the sweat laie fallow and tossed and salidified beneath its overturned side…
im drinking down the water. it taste like fucking dust. like its sat there for a week. like its from down the bottom of the gutter sump like its been there all over night and waiting for me because i forgot to take it down inside my throat, forgot to cure my woes before i fell asleep – a
“Sorry, who?” i ask – and Im mumbling into the phone. “No, I cant come. Id love to go to the chilli festival man. No, really, I would. Its be great but…I cant. I need to be here. I need to talk to her. I need to … yeah. Oh yeah. Look, I know. I know mate – id come but…”
I know its been said.
Theres this spliced diced meaning coming fromt he other end – and im hearing the meanderings of conversation in one ear, and paying no attention to the feeling of sensation in the other – like a centipede, hes drenching onwards on the other end of ether – as if, during his own sleep, the ‘pede has crawled into his brain and begun its relentless assult upon his lingual membranes, dishing out slight witicisms and thoughts and invitations.
I hang up the ponhe. I take te jar, and drink deeper of the water. I scratch the sides of my mouth on its edge, for it is sharp – and the jagged edges from where it has lost its crystaline fragments bite deep into my lips.
The red, on the edges – the lipstick of life. My fear, is that the dust is not dust – that the macromicro centipedal flecks of fibered glass are making their way down into my womb, down into the room of my heart – and the shards, like ice – will melt – only to become and renew themselves, probably as they force their way down and out through my ass – drenching the toilet bowl in festid globs of blood stained shit – torn and ready….
the jar is a bottle. its neck, has been sundered. I drink the stale beer from its insides, and forget that it was water to which I had hoped to imbibe – and all around its edges, my blood leaks – like broken pores on a teenager girls face, dripping immasculated exfoliated permutations of angst down its sides.
my hjand, numb. I stretch my legs out – encompass the bed. It is full, of me. Full, of my body. I am waking, and I pat to one side and realise “ah. there we go. all the room in the world. all the moments in time. all the needs I must.”
and the scent, though long gone – is still within. im beating my hand against the matress, then not too much later, beating my hand against my cock, my dried ochre colored hand, blood dried and heaved, across my the lonliness of my flesh and
i take the neck of the bottle. I fill the cusp of the jar, and instead of dust covered water i drink my own fluids. i eat, my own thoughts – i sense, only the cutting edges of the glass across my lips and i wonder
for to whom will these lips kiss?
for to whom will these lips miss?
for to whom, will the bell of the slighty average and overly fermented beverage instill with my own fluids own their allegiance except – accept, myself.
in that moment of waking, glass in my hands, glass on my lips – the broken edges of cauterised strips of meat hanging from my face, i turn to my side and swoon -
noticing, that behind the curtains, the sun has indeed risen, and I am bleeding away without gratuity, without sanctity, and the broken bottle falls to the carpet below and i see, beyond closed eyes -
to which I had once known, as only i could know, the blood from my own veins -
I sip on what is left in the jar, and know only the taste of spring…
Has it occured to you, that the kiss was merely that which optioned me like a film?
As a script myself, I have no choice but to go line by line – each line taking the consclusion of the action to its fateful next page turn. Each page, dog eared by the relentless turning – the flick, the swap, the restart.
The characters discuss in a two dimensional universe, what exactly it is that is fundamental to the word “love” adn what it is, that is so appalling about the word “grace” – and the grace of lips spools off the pages, like a shimmering edition of the wallstreet journal clad in diamonds and pearls, taunting the recalcitration of a tongue with its promises of fortune, fortune, fortune.
Has it occured to you, that the scene has changed? That now, we’re outside – and we’re in a corner – and im literally trembling before you. My hands shake and I cannot meet your eyes – and you ask me why it is we do not speak. why words dont pass between the multiple scenes that we have already played out, over and over again – always to the endless turmoil of restraint. Always, to inaction – always, where the words are littered beneath with foibles of heat and gasping literance.
Like the tragic characters – we breath each others breath and sit, and hold, and we hug – thwere, off to one corner, off in a place where no other can see until -
the lights are on, and I do not know if I have come home. Is your embrace hom? Is the comfort of my will endlessly biting into the fabric overlain on a shoulder? From two dimensions, to three, to four – and in my hands your hands attached to the arms of the world, encompassing it in a bear like grip from where I can not escape – and I know, I know not to talk. I know, not to whisper. I know, not to move gently into that zone whereby we will both be unable to move out from once we have breeched its limits – and by default, the tsunami of breath that flows around us, the avalanche of photons smashing themselves upon our retinas – the scents of clashing fragrance…
Has it occured to you, that we did as we should have not?
Where your face was within those hands, where I leaned in and you moved back slightly – asking, wondering, do.you.want.to.do.this.are.you.sure.its.possible.yes.oh.god.yes.now.now.yes. – and we’re there – we’re actually there, and I dont realise how -
you can move. How simple, you taste. How easy, ti all was – and I dont tihnk, I dont think of whats to come – I dont think of the future. i dont think of allt hose monets inth e past, tartan gazes and oiled words and customary galnces across the room at each other – we, we dont think. And your against – nad you push. You mount the edge of my leg as we do so, and you caressing yourself, through my jeans, thrugh your upturned skirt through the bodice and the thin filmy movie-world of lush transparent sheens …
and I dont want to
move out. away. Just for a moment. I hear the closing of doors, I walk back – wait. Wait. I will be back and I
return, bag in hand – ready to take it to whereever we need to take it next – ready to cast the coin and sign away my own fortune to the rambling sheet of music, the notes of fate and the ringing in my ears, in my mind, in my loins, and ready – and I dont, really, know. I remember the words. I remember the yes. the god. the shambling spirtis the tense and loose muscles. the fractional movement and the gasps and I remember…what it is. I remember,th at it is, what I have wanted. that is is, what really needs to be but that I cant quite hold in my mind clear enough to say it – that i can never say it. that i can never do it. that i cant quite grasp …and i walk back. bag in hand, remembering only moments before – and shaking, and lightening my mind and I really, really dont know…what …to do but I return anyways, and I look for you
i realise -
you are gone.