How I Feel

All the grotesque voyeurism I usually conjure disappears today because it is vulgar and crass, and I could not begin to apply it to such beautiful people, in their time of loss. Even myself, such a figure of fun usually; now I feel like I can't be anything but statuesque in my dignity - because I have to be. Because if the cracks appear in one of us when the light goes out then the whole world will crumble apart beneath our feet, and the horrid depths below are not a place I wish to send anyone I care for.

No doubt many people reading this have experienced loss, and will understand. I feel selfish and vainglorious for trying to elaborate how I feel, but I want to, so I will.

I have not slept for a very long time; no one has. There are so many faces flashing around the house and every eye is red and pouring tears, pulsing sadness through gargantuan veins, limitless devouring love all hanging loosely from lanterns; guiding balloons safely home.

Panting lonely sighs, staring at the wall, reading books and not taking in words, holding hands and tearing apart the tissues. Everything feels so fleeting, so tinged with sadness and overflowing with meaning. Artifacts of little value now destroy me, and I bury my head in my hands and weep. The smallest things, the most minuscule, become cosmic in their sudden lack of purpose, their owner covered in cotton and breathing so slowly, eyes closed never to open again, and my hands trembling and unable to look. The smallest things hurt so much; and I will never again hear that voice, that beautiful joyous laugh. I cannot help but think I can pick up the phone and have her answer in that beautiful calming way, and I know that any fears I have will dissipate. No problem is too big for a grandmother. Not even dying. It is just one of those things, handled with the greatest ease, and the swiftest of arms flung around my shoulder.

The greatest struggle is there in the eyes of those left behind, who don't want her to to go. I didn't want her to go. I never wanted her to go. No one deserves this. The intimacy of death is overwhelming, and the strength of love, the sheer will to provide comfort unending.

I know today a large large part of me died along with my grandmother. A part of my past is now just that; the past, forever locked in my head with only dreams to stir up the correct agitations to make it seem real.

I cannot believe she is gone.

Jaywalking

Is it ever okay to dance so beautifully with so crass a sound scratching from the stereo, so dark a light illuminating the cracks of your face?

I would feel so content to drift every last second away floating downstream and crashing under the weight of the cascade at the end. Falling water and I. Effortlessly entwined, mouth full of earth and leaves clinging to my ears, my bizarre elfin shape destroyed on rocks of pure amnesty. Shuffling onwards, mortal coil ragged and torn, slipping off me, or cut off with scissors. Yoko laughing. I try so hard to dignify my actions, but fail so remorselessly in hurting myself so much that the blood trickles down my chin, with the spittle, the alcohol touching puddles on the floor where he stood and makes for sombre chains of sweat on the brow.

I cannot find hope within that rotting old frame, through contact with toilets or bathrobes; but dancing effortlessly on satin sheets stained with apathy and sweat; lurching forward from desperate clinging partisanship; the labels stick so vehemently, and never even think to leave the door open, for a way out.

Urging myself to spill out all over and not cry poor tears from even the lewdest of orifices onto the faces and licking up the tears as I hear the family in the background wonder what their daddy is up to and if that boy is happy in his complicity.

I remember when I drew pictures in crayon of my mother and my grandmother, and how I was such a lovely lovely lad. I was such a precious vessel. I could have filled it with all the seven wonders, but instead I chose to fill the empty cup with shit; overflowing, a whole river bursting the banks and wrestling with the alcohol in the bloodstream, the numerous probable infections. I was so sick of myself and I learned the hard way that liking yourself is such a petty crime.