A spine cut like a blade through his back

Broken flesh opened the way for a song of redThe floor hungrily awaited its arrival   Old shoes and rotting booze  His cracked lips stuck to each other in a kissA salty narcissism filled the empty mouthThe throat coughed and clogged 

Tailgates and china plates

And all of this was just an echo unfoulding

Of a thing which actually meant something

The sword swung down and embedded itself neatly into my thigh.  I did not scream for there was no pain, just the shock of the body against the cold steel, which caused the flesh to politely disect and part, revealing the way for a cute ribbon of the deepest red to unfurl and flow down my leg.  Rather than recoil, my purpose remained undimmed, I grabbed the hand that gripped the sword, so to keep the blade firmly inside me,  I wanted to embrace the sensation, to make it real, like some jilted lover who desparately clings to their adultrous other, holding them so close that they suffocate under the weight of their own infidelity.  Mad dog.  I breathed through bubbles of spit and searched the face of my enemy.  He was unremarkable except for the insanity of the moment that was caught within his eyes,  perhaps i was only seeing a reflection of myself, like you do when you stare intently enough into the eyes of another.  With my one free hand I pulled him close and sank my teeth deep into his throat, snorting as I did, his blood filled my mouth and poured forth from my nose.  Wheezing through his new hole, he lay catapleptic on the floor, waiting for the pitying pecks of the crows that circled above.  Only animals can be heroes, only animals can exist with cold hard fact.

The headless dog bites with a wretched, wanton fury 

It is unknowing, fathomless hunger.

The headless dog has a stare that tears flesh from bone. 

It was fogotten in time.

The swimmers of Lethe 

Above the swimming pool but below the water, there lie the swimmers of Lethe. There in the sunlight, their dressed in shadows; silent ones mind. It’s only been three minutes but the airs fading. Fast fading, slow falling; the rhythm of the snow flake in June.

How they forget when there’s nothing to remember, ill never know. There feet leave no traces in the rain, as the recent past is munched up by thirsty puddles. The distant past, well that’s far closer, it refuses to go away. Even its absence has a tragic presence in the unknown void that it leaves in the corpse. A corpse which remembers the grasp but dreams of the last gasp. A corpse which can’t even be a corpse due to never have breathed, let alone the last or had lost. They float, prettily mind, like a leaf on watery air. They swim, forever, between somewhere and nowhere.

Amoungst the madness and the mayhem was the glance,

Within the order of the daily was a chance

Encounter with a moment which broke routine,

Of a sight were not shown but now have seen.

Without the theatre there is not the long applause,

But thats it’s nature; the silence of the unstaged pause.

The romantic and the cynic are good bed fellows. They understand that they only exist because of the other one. That seems, to both of them anyway, a good basis for a lasting relationship. Since the destruction of clear hierarchies in relationships they have been able to exist in a more openly, flexible and harmonious union. They fluctuate between positions of power, aware that such a thing does exist and denial of it is pointless.

It just rots and it just blooms.

The cynic is all logic, all common sense and lives in reality. The romantic is aware of the false nature of reality, so fails to believe in it. Instead he idealises, dreaming of transcendence, a lose of transience and the eternal. The cynic suitably tempers this, pointing out the fleeting nature of any such experiences. Rather than dampen his enthusiasm it provides a new sense of relative pleasure to the romantic. The cynic is given occasional wings by the romantic, which stop him gravitating inside himself. 

It never stops as it never ends.

The cynic shows him the wall which needs to exist in order for his windows to hold up. The romantic creates the windows which the cynic would not believe in. Architecturally they support each other. It’s a happy union which could last forever. It’s a happy union until it ends.

It only rises if it falls.

The disengeuous urchin, by his nature, is undone by the Pink Lady… again and again…

…Its the same everytime. We believe in it because it satisfies an urge. The empty void society and self has made needs filling. Its a self fullfilling fuck up. So we continue, blindly.

It grows. The boy in the head sniggers, thinking of the phallis as always…but with other names. It gorws in the head, to what it should be. It never is that though. Its a lust for flesh which we call that other name. Intangible makes it sound mysterious and hides its nonexistence. Its our secular god, the unreal reason in a reasonless existence.

This ends, this falseness. Then we are left spinning again. Srambling within ourselves on the floor. Screaming as if fallen. But we never even left the ground to start with. But the silence of the plataeu lacks the poetry of the rise and fall, however artificial that is.

Our mediocirty is denied, cast into the cynics pillow. We romanticise and aggrandise our emotional impotence. The grand monologue of loves great tragedy sounds so much better in our imaginary daily epitaph.

The truth brings far more despair than the hollywood melodrama we create. This pathetic, narcissistic emptiness.

So the cycle continues. So the cycle continues. We spiral within ourselves searching for something real. We soffocate and drown in the empty journey for breath.

The sun has moved now inexorably along its path and can be seen glowing through my window,  if you care to look.  Its blinding.  I think I may have to move now, or soon, just so i can again see something, anything.

Mary was writing on a pad, on a desk.  Her scrawl was mesmerizing, the type of writing they only had in the old days.  you don’t get that type of writing anymore, people just don’t take the time to practice.

The square couldn’t contemplate the possibility of being a cube, transfixed as it were by the confines of its own existence.  The whale just had time enough to contemplate the beauty of its own existence, before it ceased to be a whale.  And a mayfly struggles to understand the concept of existence when placed inside the infinitly vast yet confined experiences of a rock.

I struggle to understand how she can breathe in that thing, she still looks elegant though, even if her stomach is a tit and her kidneys are her arse.  Plaintive though, melancholy, but oh so beautiful.  I bet my hands could reach all the way round there and touch fingertips.  And my hands aren’t even that big, in fact they’re really small.  I have tiny hands.

It takes ages to paint.

The sun has gone again now.  It keeps doing that, and then coming back again.  I do miss it when its not there, or here.  It doesn’t seem to last long when its here.  need to remember to enjoy it while it lasts.  even if it does hurt.  The iron man says the same. Ted says that pain is cathartic. the iron man burnt his bottom, so i wonder if he’d still say the same.  he probably would, it all makes sense that way.

Its with a cloying heart that he wishes to be remembered

But one filled with organic olive oil.

Between cupid and the crow he floats 

He brings messages from a far.

Like some furry little warlord but not furry or warlordish

Unknowingly he is a protagonist, carrying a seed.

Holes are opened up to fall into;

Holes like jacketed water bottles

Holes like warm sticky tar.

He keeps us waiting then opens a window for us

A window through our chest

A window onto some other unseen space

He vanishes, nameless

Having delivered joy and melancholy, as if bedfellows