A heart laid on a stone, beyond the slopes, bloodied just enough, soaking up the air, so soon a pack of mutts wandering, biting; each lamp a moon to crawl under, a good spot; they’d pass the slopes, the percussive missteps, the cold stone, where lay the heart cramped, bloodied just enough. A soft indifference aloofs itself to its position, a little numb unless dried and hardened with stimulants when it becomes a piece of dry fruit in your chest cavity. Prunes for days! Bug-eyed! Absolved of its notions, conditions applied: its paradigms, not a shift – a stalling but only to the point of immersion…forget; tender, warm – doled out all ripped up. It’s goodwill or intimate if you say so, otherwise, all you, all the time, bloodied just enough for the pampering to soak in, for Moloch to fill up the silence, for the disseminate to grow coherence between its branches and for death to grow its green mask. Her eyes were a little greener; of a different machination, shaking her still. Still enough that I could really see her for a few seconds at a time. Of all the cities we built up in the quiet, it was what we wanted to see in the daze of our beholder, the love we gave back in self-mutilation, in seraphic eyes and intentions. Then again it was because youth meant love, and still does, and because time cramped up every time we dared a little loving into existence and willingly echoed each other, destroying ourselves. I wondered what I would be if I didn’t crack; if I were stuck as a snapshot of myself. What would I be stuck with? The thought of not delivering myself but the possession itself, which would no longer belong to me but to itself, malleable, clay-like. A case of an exorcism that picks its exorcist; though, hasn’t this always been the case? The subway and its main-stayers, the guttural screech and its trauma, the fermented and their sheol. A knee-jerk kind of reaction to our environment as we made it.
–
It easily goes over your head, most doesn’t look like much anymore – so that we may hide our nakedness in a bush – so that everyone can finally be right – so that all conflict may sustain.
The real problem in question was that I didn’t turn out to be a piece of shit and I had many opportunities to. Where my allegiance lied was actually to whatever – and I think there’s an incompatibility between us, at a level of wanting to throw the magic around for a little bit, make the pig of life squeal for a moment so you know which way the cows shit and the chickens pop out hard-boiled eggs.
Afterward, there’s always things to say which must be said first, before they can’t be said the same way without being untrue, or lost or maybe in the end truer than they are now – Friendships don’t have the same expiry date as most other things and seem to come closest to this strange form of choice, freedom; which you can boil down to the desire for freedom we all have in spite of what’s missing. A dialogue pinched out of a natural language we’ve long forgotten – friendships are a shared dialect that grows reality into place. All other forms of love a few half-finished sentences
–
We fell into each other anyhow and when we came out the other end, we felt that we’d floated through space as though it were time and we each looked away as though time was itself just a delayed reaction. We looked away never to remember the other’s face as it was, never to draw the cat around the grin again. Because I suppose they said “You must know before you know” “Just like in that show!” There’s a show? There’s always a show. ” How are you feeling?” “Pretty stale”.
And we were off onto something, empty of proposition, dead on arrival, marvelous. But then the great grin opened wide and let out in steam, a pot of words – contracted.
Pinching pennies. Born with burning coal in his mouth. Floating through space as though it were time. And the vile shit rose alighted. Who ambles, bleached and pruning. Glowing from its extremities. Who sits at the right, the left or perhaps second row.
Few know this but Heaven bears great resemblance to a horseless wagon on wheels; maybe not a station wagon but something just as family friendly – with reclining seats for those too holy to sit.
Standing, unable to wander, at the back of the bus, on their hind legs, a pack of mutts hinges out a few whimpers, digging through crust for some emotion.
Corrupted not by love but by principle in which they believed that they believed. without a hand of faith to pay back when it sat across from them instead of by their side, they muttered an unconditional yes, fearing for their freedom they didn’t feel responsible for. Leaning in all the way, they pierced through the skin with nose lips and teeth, eating away at Moloch eternal;
leaving only behind hardened, his heart, cramped and nervous, bloodied just enough for a pack of mutts to come wandering, biting; each lamp a low moon to crawl under, looking for the heart, the fixed point, to cure them of aspect, – and turn all into urge – make of sentience an animal pointing blasphemously at heaven, leading the way into farce and honor.
