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.
No comments:
Post a Comment