WHATEVA BLANK NOISE
The mood is not the thing. The whole bald brain. Smoothing curvature despite request, some. Taking in the chemicals. Not to know the difference then, but. Taking in the chemicals. Loose ornate change on the streets getting rolled down the drains in the rain, having fallen out your pocket. The sonic stop-it of the universe moving on. Grab your rifle grab your one. Together make it through the looseness who knew you could make it through. And I am a comet coming crashing down become the asteroid you blue-blue look at, look through. Tornado person walking down a line. Getting torn down by the wind I am and the damage it creates. Lying under a speeding train when I am too drunk and coked-out and gone through. Plain as day. My car must have been scrapped by now. If it is still beyond the impound. I can come to on a groove so new it doesn’t occur but is known, now. Gray goose familiar no how. Reference the bed is a spread getting worn down. I am the angel-headed hipster as HOWL described. I am the front of the wall being torn… being torn down. Getting loosened up with wedge shots and nail biting. Getting blasted away with dynamite becoming rubble all over again, simple dust. How do you know what to do, now?
Come queue as you are; let’s invite you, now. The reference doesn’t make a difference, but I have heard goddesses orgasm and thought, Well now. What do I do here in the head of the heart—a tornado person getting torn down?
We have surgically removed the spirit from the body and knotted the worn out spoonsful of Sick into the dropper and intravenously melted. I have been in…
I have been in the house of satan and found my most glorious love, there. Who loved me more than she loved anything, before I was lost in the motel lots of ambiguous pornographic nobodies hidden behind curtains like smoke-white lust.
I have made my way out of the soon-now, the house was Quadruple-Zero: 0000, on some lane or simple address. I have seen Satan’s rooms and wild behaviors. Stone-faced pools with andronite hollows for archways. I have seen the becoming the sad sick watching partygoers to a wedding or a birthday I can’t remember now. I have holed whole stuck.
Disappeared into my clothes and ruffled the fabric of reality with my luck and my love. I have seen the telephone get taken—handset off the nail or lever, now.
I have requested the truth, from a lucifer who was fat and wore a black suit and married some woman I didn’t know, now. I have refrained from attending the ceremony, and stayed in the house, where I’ve met my lover. Her hair was black. Her lips were perfect. Her face was milky and beauteous and somehow forgettable as hell, now. It was all in a dream. I give you dreams. I give you love, too, sometimes, somehow.
I tell the truth in a way that lies to you about what it means to tell the truth. I tell about nows in the late tense and ask for something of a re-do. I bloom sacred pain out of my back like black wings and befriend the devil who makes jokes out of life. Alice-in-Wonderland-style.
I have held in the secrets of love with my soul’s risen hollows and rows of black roses wilting and flowers’ love decayed and tomorrows promised to never come. While she, walking through Satan’s house, entertains the guests of the post-reception.
And she has talked, to me, and loved me, and kissed me in such a way I could not possibly have been able to tell I was in a dream with how dreamy and like a dream it all was.
I had played the game of Do-Not-Let-Them-Know-They-Love-You, where what was right was always so wrong it felt like a taboo to even blush in her direction, and to blush harder because of it. I have melded the sane with the in- and over the course of posting-my-self-ups become more like a stone predicting futures than necessary.
I have let my mind go soft and frisbee away the dying day’s necessities like to eat and to bathe because it will all be gone soon anyways.
I have known true love but only in my dreams because only there would my superficialest ego not get in the way.
I have been uninhibited and cried and raved. I have watched as the gun was whipped across my face in a bar back in Birmingham where the manager was being gashed upside the head with the pistol’s butt, and I was so drunk I just had to jump in.
You do not know me, but I have to pull through. To get to know what it is you are if you really are, to get to know the train I was under when it would begin to brake after passing, pulling all the oxygen out my mouth with the speed of its freight.
And tonight do you know what I will dream again I guarantee you, so long as I am alive. And I have been sober for over five months and that is a long time. But I do not know that I will be able to stand it for much longer; soon enough something will have to break.
And asleep it will be as if I was awake, and I will go places and see things. And speak to people only I will have ever known, because the world reflects what I am and I can see that in my dreams. I have just with this next period hit nine-hundred-and-sixty-two words, not including the title. Let’s get it over a thousand, now.
Can we please become who we are when this is over you think you will say when you want, though—soon enough you may blink and find yourself already there, so don’t.