I have to pick my battles with the dead Sometimes it feels like it's the amateur hour where my blue-light confessions aren't (to them) of any particular interest As I choke on dead stars and quick-and-dirty martinis Failed provocateur, howling the pain of contradictions, relinquishments, rhetorical questions, and fluttering regrets - So. Many. Fluttering. Regrets. With you... Wing-ed, fluttering little things, pricking my eyes, my mind, every part, facet, and fragment of me - Death's-head hawkmoth effect reaching from here to the spirit world, wafting, like foamflower lace stitched with tears Me, squinting, with drowning eyes, at battle-worn maps of the fault line that ran through us Tangled vein, branching out into the vulnerable, empty places of us that we couldn't fill, couldn't fix - Spaces of illusions, contusions, confusion... Opium and alkaline do not a cohesive adaptation make You, a triad of coffee, pen and cigarette, with your poppy eyes, starlit with a casual concern for consequences Shaking small skeletons from your ratty hair; A trail of bony tears As you deftly pounced on the next take-it-to-the-extreme daydream... Me, with my western sway, and naivete of the aether within your beautiful, briny, eastern skin The membrane between dark and light so menacingly thin... And, apparently, I am a connoisseur of bittersweetness, abstruse love, and the sweetly wicked... And damned if I don't act like my own worst enemy, despite my gritty volition... Which is why, in this hot, dusty desert, with our esoteric language of cryptic conversations, our fire bled out To wither and rot among the tumbleweeds, crows, and the piercing monotony in this festering town The story of us reaching the point of cemetery fatigue... But we found a way to write a new psychology, extracted from poetry that made sense out of the revised us, until You were left to your own devices, and right turn became wrong turn down a catastrophic road Clocking illegal speeds through the past, all hope disintegrating; Falling away, sliding down silver guardrails... An accident on purpose through 80 mile glass... This now is my twilight zone. I want to crawl out of my skin. I want to dissect my brain. I want to be awake in my dreams. There is no way There. Is. No. Way. To make feathers out of stone Hold the past in your hands Or bring back the dead... I'm a wounded, mourning, walking disaster, riven open by your unfathomable, hasty exit - Internal landscape a maniacal mojo rising... My heart's exquisite sorrow splayed open, inadvertently offering any trespassing specter something enticing to feed on As I search for a catharsis to get me out of this place Anathema am I? Or simply, a swine for punishment? I loathe who I am while I rage, scream, and I weep - That all of these discarded things are not mine alone to keep Peculiar Neitherland - neither entirely existing in this place, nor entirely existing in that space And while you, or you, or you may never see what hovers there, or there - Or there... In this haze... This, jarring aberration, where I am rootless in the wild, with undone eyes - I know when a spirit moves the air... - I whisper words of turbulent longing and torrid desolation against the cold, blue mouth of silence in this house And none had better dare tell me that these jeweled hauntings aren't traces of you, or that it is only my reimagined pain I define my own definition of distance, undone not by time, method, instrument or structure; An ethereal constellation Where, when I can no longer stand the bite of this feral devastation of the loss of you... whether by mind, or magic - Through the veil, cocooned in a realm of luscious periphery (Of which I know that you would wax poetic) Your metamorphosed reawakening has at times, lingered, to anesthetize my tears Your angelic face - your beatitude - my Every. Single. Dream.
Theater of Sorrows 