It's times like this that scare me enough to take myself to the doctor, bring me to the brink of satisfaction and then quickly revoke my status, take me back to life and back to the hell that wrought itself upon me in the first place. It's an iron bar that no man can ever pull up or walk across, an anvil that just keeps falling, never breaking through ice or ground, a chimney without smoke or fire, wood without termites or love. It lies deep inside as something organic, something alive, something sucking the life out of you but doing it because it thinks it is right, like a preacher or one of those guys that wear the apocalypse signs over themselves. It loves you because you are beautiful, you are a kin to the lord and savior, you just don't know yet.
Once when I was little I bit fire with an open mouth, it was painful. It tasted delicious but it was too horrible for anyone to intervene, and maybe just too amusing to stop. It was a time where I thought I was transitioning myself into something better, or maybe taking a trip to a new plane of existence, somewhere where I thought I had never been before. A fiery world full of mystery and intrigue, somewhere a child only dreams of in stories and fables. It turns out history was right, caucasions are the devil and only books with blank covers can be the truth. But it takes a while to get used to it, I don't know why but for some it just does. To be or not to be, some people will never see.
Today I was a murderer. It flew about my room buzzing and crawling, screaming for help in garbled little flips of conversation, but it was too high pitched for me to understand. He seemed hostile so I ran at first, i ran to get my gun. I came back and he was running in circles, running towards the light like a man with a death-wish, scaring me even more by the look in his eyes, his many eyes that seemed to reflect the red ways of the Potomac Indians that used to haunt my dreams and my family and the house they were born in. It took me a while but I killed him, I killed it, and now I forget every day to bury him, soon it will be too late and he will be covered by all the clothes and magnificence that my room seems to spawn day by day, like a trade salesmen at an auto show or a God working on creating a new world, a new playground for the other kids that he takes care of every day. He has better things to do than worry about animals killing eachother.
Bring life to the incompetent, bring will to the homeless, bring us a world to live in and maybe we will change for the better. Sometimes it's like that, ill set and full of intrigue, it just takes a moment to reset your mindset, it just takes a few minutes, years, to bring yourself to recognize that there are people worse off than you, with flies and giraffes and battle axes strewn across their streets and with flies and other terrible things nipping at their heels, like dead wives and the ghosts of their mothers. Like any outdated technology, spirituality is a grieving process given only to the strong, those who can handle it. It is a lovely way to live but a horrible way to die. The eighty years in between are not so bad if you just learn to cope with your fellow man.
Take me to the hospital, I am sick and the gorilla next to me has an awful cough, he may be dying. It is cold outside and our feet are falling off, give us shelter and food, we are hungry for something other than the flesh the world keeps giving us, it's old and grey and tastes like boiled socks, an awful dirty thing. It is probably a sin to eat such a thing, it fills my mouth with a stench so horrible and ghastly I feel I might keel over and writhe myself to death or drive myself to a coma, it is just that bad. Please doctor, let me in the hospital, I need to go to sleep, I need to just take a moment to relax and breathe, the world needs to stop while I catch up and tend to a few things, like my gorilla. He is sad and needs a few more friends, his home has burnt down and for a while there I thought he might just go on a rampage. I think he has a crush on you. Please let us in, we really are hungry.
I apologize for a few things, but you know I have only good intentions. Sometimes it takes the world or a rampant lord of God or trilogy of terror and doom to just say it's all whack and cut it off, end it, just drive it to the end of the earth and chuck it into the bush below. It really burns me up sometimes, deep in my gut I can feel it welling up, getting bigger, a psycho somatic tumor just waiting to explode and release it's toxins into the air. For the love of God do not breathe them in, they will make you remember things you just do not want to hear, things too intense and beautiful for any human to comprehend or understand. It is like hearing the voice of God, you will die instantly. You will not only die, you will be mortified and sent somewhere besides heaven or hell, a grown up timeout in the far reaches of space and time. I forget what they call it but they call it something sweet. Sometimes the devil has parties there and drinks green tea and eats fruit off apple trees and throws up afterwards. The fruit is bitter and sweet, it takes about three minutes for the party to go in full swing. Sometimes I wish I was zen.
There was a time thirty years from now when I was petting my dog, he was made of metal and steel and barked very little. Once when we went for a walk he crapped out fire and that made me laugh, I love the future.
To me, nothing is more dear than the sign at the end of the roads in India that say "bring back the house rules". Sometimes it makes people angry but I like it. To a man with no teeth, no job, and no prospects it would be something terrible, something he would take to his home and burn in gasoline and beat with a crowbar, it is like that only more complicated, something much more pristine and vulgar, I can't even begin to explain it but it will always be there, that authentic bitterness of the east, they will always have it, not everybody is a winner, not everybody can open up the key to pandora and live in a box forever, the genies of the south can tell you that, they will always know what it's like to be used, to be opened up and enslaved, it is an awful thing that only a number of true billions will be able to write about and describe in readable context. It takes finesse.
3 comments:
I like the fly murderer the best.
What are you going to do with these sir?
Dude I don't even know. I wrote all of these in one sitting, it only took me about 10-15 minutes.
I could make thousands of these if I wanted to... I kind of do.
If you have any idea on what productive way these could be used hallelujah holla back.
I just keep thinking about taking one piece, writing randomly about that piece, then writing about that piece and so on until you have a big ol novel. Kind of like concentrating the goodness. Harnessing the subconscious writing style, which is totally rad, and giving it a direction.
Post a Comment