While we were dancing...
... you screamed in an artful way,
a sirens call of shredding vocal chords and the brushstroke masterpiece
of a shattered jawline.
Backhand leading; now my hand's back is bleeding,
bruised, I suppose I could laugh about being sorry,
if I didn't hurt so vividly, so heroically.
You did it to yourself, as if you'd
jumped down the flight of stairs,
while I embrace the lies that I know I believe and sing, while I blame it on my job, my boss, my life,
while I blame it on everything.
Your mandolin cries, manhandled
and manipulated,
Destiny stringing you along,
dying from your green black eye,
dying for your blood red blonde.
Three quarts, four quarts, swimming floors and
waving walls,
weaving through the swerving house,
I know to flail my hands, contact smooth glossy flesh.
and bounce down the steps, in a broken doll house,
tiny and plastic,
as I devour myself, by emptying you.
A comfortable drunk, I am, I am. In position, and in disposition, and in this position, a comfortable drunk. Head on down, the desk, typing hands above, ahead. Wail, wail away like night time, drink deep the japanese echos, Ghosts, and it is this MAchiNe that haunts, that is the dead and dearly so.
Or is it the nearly so, the broken frail tea of chicken bones, steeped in eighty years, and ninety years, and that's not all, I hear, I hear the whispers of spoken ages, the collective wits of uncounted whisperers. But you never counted on hearing, from miles away, the train coming, the journey taken willingly as they take upon the world, the last of their foot printed steps.
My God man, the speed they talk, the shit they say, the ending they dream up while their nightmares play on live TV, eating out the out eaters,
Punk versions and punk virgins, both speedier, both pierced and still phoenix dying beautifully, driven aloft and screaming downwardly, loving and ending and beginning again.
So we shuffle the music, not new tracks but costumed drifts that make our new days haze into each other, writing and driving, dying and living. I could fall soulless, sleeping into the fray, while the tumor that I live with, drives roads through my mind.
Fall this all out, make it drop and break the betters, for lack of a better word.
Paul and Art tell me who loves who more than who will know, and places for prey on the simplicity, on the duplicity, on the ease of the lies, on the directness in the failing truth.
I had a dream of werewolves and vampires, a dream that was a parable, a dream in which I was the haunted. We held the building against it all, and then you played a song about ourselves, and what we'd just done.
And that is where it ends; that is where the haunting stops for me. I fade back into the walls, my entity in my house, solid center of a solid life.
And that is where it ends; this is where my haunting stops.