SKIES HOME IN DIFFERENCE
Then, to be light, oh they tell me, Jump over this fence. Slide under our portcullis. Come over to the side we are on; you would really like it on our side. And far and away my soul sort of groans a little as I stammer and tell them I cannot hear what they are saying. Please speak up a little—I cannot hear you. But to wayward oh what a want would do. I know not for forever everything gets closer to the radical end of itself. When I am sleep-deprived enough, I can make with my sight snakes out of people, so their strange looping selves are lapsed in stacks of motion and I can barely keep my eyes. You do not want to get there, though. I have crossed a boundary with myself I’m not sure I can uncross just yet. What I have now is a baggy full of dust and a lot of wonder, in my dream’s mind. Not in the real world—mind you, I’m not too sure there’s much of a difference. But this whole thing was constructed more or less as a means of experimenting with how to communicate more genuinely. Right now, I am not really doing it. It has to be a kind of a conversation. The writing itself must contain a sort of voice. Genuine communication, above all, is the point. And since I am not really engaging in that—since I have nothing to really say—the words are being wasted and it is a sad sort of sight. I wanted to explain beautiful truths in a way that was like a story the way that dreams are kinds of stories at times. When I’m waking up, the emotions sort of fade away. I wanted to become more of a textual version of myself, only one I could transcend—and then, no. I am doing it even now: wasting the words. But I wanted to communicated, genuinely, something to someone. Right now I am not too sure that is anything but pain. And I’ve broken the format of The Golden Damned. Though I think, maybe, that was always kind of a necessity whether I realized it or not. I have so many books I need to read.
There is so much language out there. Where yelping burr daubin overtook my handed sight. I saw my legs stacked infinitely atop the orange sleeping bag, my own strange loop. I was coming down off the mushroom cocktail and chimed blithe and could not retell the story for anyone except in that moment. I was becoming the literary figure unknown to himself—as ever, could one want. To be known to oneself is such a bore anyway, I suppose. Or else I am just bitter that I am not there. You decide. Watch as the flagrant ice picks of the monkeymen tomorrow fall down and spur out the age. Watch as the climbers stop climbing. Watch as phantasmagorial spleen-surge bucks the trend of the body to keep itself going in homeostasis. Watch as night on a television is depicted. Watch as light flows. I am only in this sense regarded as a lost true effort in same. The sinew of the heart twists in recognizing its mortality’s depletion.
“Hey ho, Ziggy… is that all you ever think of? Death and all that stuff? So depressing. Get a grip.”
Well. No, little mime. I sometimes think of food and drink. Do not be so crushing if you don’t mind. And then, why are you talking? Aren’t you supposed to gesticulate parodic versions of my own form?
“Jesus Hache Christ, Ziggy. Twig a wig on a piss pill. You know not a single thing now, do you?”
I in a granite faltering column on some old Roman buttress or otherwise the pictured imagination of same by someone continue dusting, my facial features acrumble as the earth quake and I go down. I go down.
“Because you know; I know. You can’t put so many rules on things.” Reaching your hand out as though you were trying to touch me. I too afraid to be touched by anything. Or else just to let really anything touch me. I too afraid to be alive in many ways. Unlikening myself to myself, divesting the grand stirge. Eye can carumba you somewhat, late in the fray of the text thing, says the eye. But the mind of the third does not know. It is only a recipient of the sight and sound and taste and other sensations. The Emersonian ghost eyelet floats wide-legged over the world and records our reality for God or else a forgotten sense of a higher power or thing.
I once felt like I knew him. When I thought of God as a him. Now, I’m not so certain I can truly believe in anything, though if there really were a war going on over my soul, I would probably feel even worse knowing that I am giving up for some enemy’s cause ahead of time. What do you think?
I was trying to talk with and not at you but failed again, my love. You will never read my face again. I will never hold you close and like when I dreamed when you were in my dream. I will never know. Hop scotched tape rot of the brain gets spelled as nonsensetallyacious vests. Can you please pull yourself together now?