writer's blockyou can cram yourself up with monsters,build a zipper into your spine,fill your days with darkness;or take a bow (and exit) -or shout until blood slides off your throat.though some of us may take Suicide PillsTM in our dreams,or wrap up in secrets,out there it's much trickier. reactions, a cry of responsibility,interactions, responses. traction, sponsors. attraction, absconces.you can fear the telephoneyou can fool yourself with old hopes(i hope you can all serenade your own damn selves to sleep.)i'll be here in my secrets,surrounded by a fancy gatewith a "no trespassing" sign made of solid gold.back in business, baby.
catharsisicy roadsICY ROADSand icy looksand an equally icy demeanor.and DRINKS ALL AROUND -days when the entire universe could be contained in a single cigarette.i was a fountain of empathy behind a rock wall,with the occasional dusty and cracked windowjust because.i was a pod of memories, legs and arms sproutingwilly-nillyflailing, sometimes grasping a pen.HELL IS IN A METAL FENCEUNMOVING AGAINST THE WHITE SKYwith the occasional icicle to remind us(me)of the fragile sensationsall around.roads sometimes wet, mostly icyto be stepped onFUCKan eternal search for something to breakwithout the courage to break anything at all.DUMB KIDSSLAMMING THEIR HEADS AGAINST A WALLsix hours a dayor moreCHUCKLINGa curtain of hair to show how goddamn bothered we (i) are (was)a coat to use as a temporary cocoon,cushioning the unanticipated changes.BOOKS DROPPED TO THE FLOORthunk. thunk. thunk.RAPIDLY BATTERING THE DRUMsilence, counting up, and then A SNAP.this was my winter.
sonarsadly, my ears drip sonar.if ever there was a signal to hit its target,my telephoto brain was deprived of its saccharine reverberations.my eyes strike like dartsand my ears drip sonar (sadly)and wafting through the air is some kind of scentbut i've never been what you would call a decent smellist.most shockingly comes the sense of togethernessthat manifests with the touch and links it all togetherthe sense of togetherness that is the imageof her tragic visage.whose?many. it may change, and it does change, and i change with itbut as i change i forgetthat i am still the same.at times, the walls breathe -other times, they don'tbut if you think about it...if her lungs under her visage and behind her chestplateare expandingthen something's gotta give.walls contort; they suck in and fluff outlike a bellylike lungsand in doing so, let her breathe.sadly,my ears drip sonar.they can distract me for only so longand they are at war with my eyes, who themselves are crust