i have been up for a day & 1/2 now. No sleep. my eyes are hanging on thin cords of heated metal pulled taut, stretching the nerves to searing screams. my body is lamenting for the flowered oasis of a bed. my mind whirls round & round in no particular direction, w/ no particular destination. & my fingers fall silent. They are tame & docile as a paralyzed cat.
my hands are concrete blocks in water. my head, swimming in a stratosphere not of the atmosphere. i am barely hanging on.
The drug certainly is working its way thru my body now.
'When, Jackson, have you ever held on?' A voice whispers.
It lingers there, the voice, as if on replay, as if coaxing an insanity to the surface of one who knows not the difference between then & now. & suddenly i become frightened of my cigarette, snuff it out, & pour a Pour fit for a Drunken king.
As i fall ass backwards, frightfully trembling, into a corner of this room, my lips kissing the tops of my knees, my arms hugging the life out of the mother of my shins, their faces begin to appear. They float there on a bed of weakened light. Staring.
Prepared for the worst, i slip another cigarette between my lips, SPARK, & inhale my life in a single drag.
& at the moment, i am Parched Desert Drenched.
i am a Time where Time once stood.
i am venerable, cracked & worn, framed against the wall.
i am now the Pupil of The Petal.
i am the farce that reflects the honesty of a beating heart infected w/ roaches.
W/ my exhale, these faces scatter like confetti, blown to pieces out & into a world that is entirely my own. & i find myself, once again, sitting stupidly inside the comma of a wall, staring at a history yet written, but believing otherwise.
Isn't believing 1/2 the battle?
Subscribe to:
Post Comments (Atom)
No comments:
Post a Comment