Thursday, February 2, 2012

Old Flames XIV: Under The Spell Of Poison

Under a desecrated moon, under the bone-bare trees, under the spell of poison, we howl and cackle. In the blues, in the yellows, the reds and oranges too, we can glow in the winter and sparkle in the summer. But, for now, we rest here, somewhere between a wink and a hallway. We left the churches, the military wards, the crazy old hospitals we called home. We're on the roads now, stepping the line every inch we get. Roll out a new highway. We all have new cars.

So what is the miracle of language? Is it not actually speaking? Is it knowing with hands and shoulders? How shall we communicate in the future, when all of everywhere is barren, laid to waste, burned against the sky like a cemetery tombstone?

That's where we come in. When the world is feeling lowly and wretched, we drink gin by the flames that burn our back with shadows. But we need to keep dancing and never stop singing, so that the world will feel loved again. We our heroes in and by our own rights. Merciful nights, we beg of you to break our hearts and rebuild, rebuild, rebuild. We are merry without control, jealous without hate and the personification of love without the broken parts. But, for this, we are damned. We are damned to a culture of never stopping. Tirelessly, slumping against each other, swinging our hands like tools, just moving like we think the tune and hum will be done soon. But we left all the holy men in a ditch we call the old world.

But this isn't the gold in our hands, the prayer without coughs, the legends without footnotes. This is the last era of honesty. This is the tremendous storm we saw coming. Well, shall we burn our fingers on tears or break our arms from carrying all the guilt? Surely, this isn't the last time we'll call God crying.

Hell no to Hellfire, we'll all cheer. But then we'll wonder how to get the heat and, before you know it, we'll be trapped between a fire and a sky again. We'll eat the stars and dip our hand in the further galaxies like ponds. How far can the moon be anyway? The North Star, how far north I say? I shall bathe in the Milky Way and watch all of my former lives die on the planet before me, one after another, always sipping the finest blackhole of champagne. Consider Heaven a bathroom floor, mesmerized by the startling chill of a tiled white endless.

So, then, what are dreams but last chances and resorts in a stunningly real school of thought? How about you Roman, Greek and Norse gods of dreams? Tell me, what have I gotten wrong here?

Nodding a head is the closest thing to an aneurysm and the slightest form of dancing. But, for now, I must say, it will have to do. I simply can't go back in there without my tuxedo.

Well, then, if this startles us all as the newest medium of memory, after a history of thought, I shall drink myself to death! It is the only way out! I cannot love again and I cannot go home again. This is a startling crash of myself. I thought I had more years, but I want none. If this is as good as it gets, then I consider myself a lucky man. I had years to figure it all out and I didn't. But, gosh darn it, I had a grand time. What, with the laughs and the trips and the parties? Here's to me never living again! I've got to tend to my rest if I'm to be a real player around here, a mover and shake, if you will. I've got a reputation to keep, or fix, or build. Who knows the rule of the western heaven prairie? Maybe it'll be tumbleweeds of clouds. Maybe the good people have all gone to bed. Maybe it just wasn't enough fun.

What a lark! Why can't we have everything? Why must we wait for it? Why shouldn't we choose death as a means and not an end? What say you, grim? Old friend reaper, I won't bother you again, or for a long while at least. We will just have to wait to find out. "Welcome to the new mystery; we have seats waiting," the banners will read. So play the music, angel drummers. Ready the gates, patron saints. Role out the red carpet, Jesus. I'm on my way.

1 comment:

Eyvette said...

I have to hurry up and do something Gertrude Stein-esque because you're Picasso-ing the heck out of this ish.