Banality
The light sleeping on the living room floor is soft and pink and darkening the room in a glowing manner, in exact the way light usually should not darken things. It entered the room through the window, through clouds and atmospheric mass, and its eternised appearance on the floor is innocuous yet menacing. In its sleep it is waiting, lurking, like a half-eaten cotton candy of the damned.
I take the bait and lie down on the barren floor, nose-deep in light.
It would feel like nothing if it did - but that would be overstating the fragility of this threadlike rest on my skin cells; a slight breathing, humming of unrest, present rather than warm or heavy. It would be the perfect atmosphere, I guess, to swoon soulfully or skin-deeply, or believing the one while exercising the other. Drifting away into cross-cutting, a classic flashback to gravely seeping teenage melodrama.
But you don't need company for this.
It's so easy it makes me wanna cry. I roll over on my stomach and laugh instead, drawing shadow blood from the pink floor with my fingertips. It's not a hearty laugh, a loud or visible one, I don't need to show that I'm laughing to know I am. I feel like I'm falling in love, but I skip prepositions and propositions. I know that I'm high, but I know it's just my body acting, and really, I don't care.
I laugh into myself, staring at the ceiling and its fingerdrip bloodtops, when it suddenly overwhelms me on the warm living room floor. Mental convulsions, like a mind menstruation to get rid of the excess waste, like puking into problem gutters, and my skin starts dragging itself from my flesh, folding back into itself, crawling in waves to transport toxic glow away from the fountain in my rib cage. And my head is irradiated and floating, and I claw at my own skin, rip it off right from the middle until my ribs are naked and the rattleshake tingle in my spine subsides, and without as much as a spastic movement, I throw up sudden toxic waste in the most content way conceivable:
"I just don't give a fuck any more!"
It glows a little before it seeps into the air. A million cores explode.
And the world sings with me.
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Monday, November 2, 2009
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rails
It darkens. Again. Or still. Again and again, hardly a shadow on the ground. The air pushes on the respiratory system, heavy clog the lungs. In the brain, it burns slowly, and in the limbs, everything seems to revolve even, sometimes, like the cuddly seconds coma in pirated tired wink.
The view is looking solid forms, straight lines, automatically. Hard blows, the dark metal in the retina, runs along the road, the road runs itself, between the dry sprawl and black burnt stones, and somewhere on the horizon, the rails intersect with itself
Are you running before, until you do not more like, until you no longer can, and then a bit further? By resentment, doubt, believed inability to at some point, barely remembers how to immigrating to the apathy.
Certainly, it is a struggle for survival, an escape, but the tachycardia has been laid to rest. It is a continuous flight, a slow, continuous, for which one needs a solid, continuous pulse. Tunk Tunk there. Panic will bring you hustle more one way or not. Since there tunk tunk. You swing with the weight and the weight with you, and together you past all the rocks that was once important. We go and take with us only the bare minimum.
some point you will be deaf to the Fußgetrappel and Stoffgeraschel, and the mouth is dry. Twelve men, maybe twenty, and none of the other has to say something more. Stoic, staring straight ahead is, towards the horizon to bring it to look, and the gentle cacophony of breaths sometimes snorted into consciousness. And the focus soars and floats, and really only way to vegetate in front of you. Surprised almost no longer what it saves a dead life.
And that it needs this
The sound, as if clouds dissipate into crystalline fragments.
The sound, as if the sky rip in a deafening, destructive sound.
The noise, as would not shake the world, but everything around them, to this unhealthy, sickening way how things shake around the world should not.
We do not stop, not with our apathetic annealed legs, but all turn around. Scan the sky with the eyes from the dark mark, the fine cracks, which cut through his gray, and then stare at the swaying of the cracks, and turning and jumping to the drunken roar of Atlas, on the ball with his shoulders, staggers across the room.
They called it Skyquakes . Perhaps they sounded sky slip not dangerous enough. Certainly not, heaven is such a soft word, and on top of two syllables, so that the slip tamed, almost willingly sounds. But there is a shift, and an unhealthy, because if you seen it once did you know about its perversity. The fact that a sky is not originally intended to slide.
you have bombed it, in maybe two weeks. Their missiles fired and detonated their explosive devices, and the sky was blown, not figuratively, but literally. And also, if its mass pushed over each other to stay balanced on each other, but scarring. Cracks that run through the whole tissue, until the chips fall at some point and kill entire cities. One may certainly resist if the enemy puts the sky in a jagged threatening gesture, but for us it was that we knew was at the time to look into the distance.
The horizon trembles, and us there is a crash, far, far away, while we still follow the tracks. Just go on forever, like cockroaches. Only this time the focus snaps back to the present, the shear element of a brain cancer, and breathing again rushing in the ears and the heart is running again Tunkatunkatunk. And the question of why it saves lives dead no need to "Come." On his own
It darkens. Again. Or still. Again and again, hardly a shadow on the ground. The air pushes on the respiratory system, heavy clog the lungs. In the brain, it burns slowly, and in the limbs, everything seems to revolve even, sometimes, like the cuddly seconds coma in pirated tired wink.
The view is looking solid forms, straight lines, automatically. Hard blows, the dark metal in the retina, runs along the road, the road runs itself, between the dry sprawl and black burnt stones, and somewhere on the horizon, the rails intersect with itself
Are you running before, until you do not more like, until you no longer can, and then a bit further? By resentment, doubt, believed inability to at some point, barely remembers how to immigrating to the apathy.
Certainly, it is a struggle for survival, an escape, but the tachycardia has been laid to rest. It is a continuous flight, a slow, continuous, for which one needs a solid, continuous pulse. Tunk Tunk there. Panic will bring you hustle more one way or not. Since there tunk tunk. You swing with the weight and the weight with you, and together you past all the rocks that was once important. We go and take with us only the bare minimum.
some point you will be deaf to the Fußgetrappel and Stoffgeraschel, and the mouth is dry. Twelve men, maybe twenty, and none of the other has to say something more. Stoic, staring straight ahead is, towards the horizon to bring it to look, and the gentle cacophony of breaths sometimes snorted into consciousness. And the focus soars and floats, and really only way to vegetate in front of you. Surprised almost no longer what it saves a dead life.
And that it needs this
The sound, as if clouds dissipate into crystalline fragments.
The sound, as if the sky rip in a deafening, destructive sound.
The noise, as would not shake the world, but everything around them, to this unhealthy, sickening way how things shake around the world should not.
We do not stop, not with our apathetic annealed legs, but all turn around. Scan the sky with the eyes from the dark mark, the fine cracks, which cut through his gray, and then stare at the swaying of the cracks, and turning and jumping to the drunken roar of Atlas, on the ball with his shoulders, staggers across the room.
They called it Skyquakes . Perhaps they sounded sky slip not dangerous enough. Certainly not, heaven is such a soft word, and on top of two syllables, so that the slip tamed, almost willingly sounds. But there is a shift, and an unhealthy, because if you seen it once did you know about its perversity. The fact that a sky is not originally intended to slide.
you have bombed it, in maybe two weeks. Their missiles fired and detonated their explosive devices, and the sky was blown, not figuratively, but literally. And also, if its mass pushed over each other to stay balanced on each other, but scarring. Cracks that run through the whole tissue, until the chips fall at some point and kill entire cities. One may certainly resist if the enemy puts the sky in a jagged threatening gesture, but for us it was that we knew was at the time to look into the distance.
The horizon trembles, and us there is a crash, far, far away, while we still follow the tracks. Just go on forever, like cockroaches. Only this time the focus snaps back to the present, the shear element of a brain cancer, and breathing again rushing in the ears and the heart is running again Tunkatunkatunk. And the question of why it saves lives dead no need to "Come." On his own
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