i have a finger
on my brain
that is stuck
in a direction
south/southwest towards my throat.
you can tell that i have been alone for a veryvery long time.
i hallucinate characterizations
of a queer boy i think i know
that would not like me but would like me
and therefore i could kiss him on the cheek.
maybe he would kiss me back
(he is shy and has problems with intimacy
due to the divorce of his parents
while he was going through puberty).
i have started talking to myself.
in my down time
i pretend i am addicted to cocaine.
every picture that i have taken of myselfi've been pawned for drugs,
has my hands in it
in the tradition of the great swissamericanphotographerhimself.
so in this suggestion:
i bite my fingernails raw and
i have scars and sores from
instrumentation and knives and pens and
overimplementation and
i guess my hands and my face leave me naked
and alonesolitary and
when photographed i'm dirty.
it suggests an achingly fluorescent pallor
of the petty thief,
the common criminal,
the lewd, insomnia-stricken marymagdalen of your choice.
i've been worn.
"not feeling anything." you whisper
as they push the needle in deeper.
it's a shady practice
that you block out,
and it reveals itself
as something new
or better
or more abundant
and it takes the commencing years away from you
so as to pass through your conciousness
and level itself out.
with fair warning,
and a flashing, red light,
and a smoke screen, and barbed wire,
could you take this and fracture it
into things which are obsolete,
into nothing?
could you stun it
with excercises in degeneration
or self-hate
and find the right words of genius,
concise in reverence of input,
to say something great with?
CLICK-
the lights went
out the room went
black
click click-
resonating
an empty parlour the sound
was like
the light (the life)
click click click-
echo around inside my head
SILOUHETTED the sound is the light
the sound's
dancing around in the
corners of the room
click click-
fade
into grey the light is
the light it's trying to hide
click-
the fuzz
you're dying on me reciprocate
replicate you lose you
lost you
die
CLICK-
you turn on the lights.
"background fuzz" you mumble.
but you already know that.
why shouldn't you? is it really that hard to
relate?
i'd never know. that's just how it is.
you're just so concentrated,
in my opinion,
on yourself.
if i'm the only one to realise, however,
everything you say
is still
a lie.
"i'm just so...
... bored..."
and that's all there
is. no explanation necessary because
e v e r y t i m e y o u s p e a k
your words are exploited
and stretched into negatives
and all they leave is a sigh-
one last breath to show me
you're trying to avoid
saying
(goodbye)
hurt my eyes.
stabbed at my loose, red eyes.
burned into the sockets
(loose, shakey eyes).
but where's a BURN when i NEED it?
where's a bright bright
CITY light
when i AM it?
how does it hurt when it comes from you?
how can it ACHE...
(sore, faking eyes)
how.
pray (tell).
could i still need you.
scream it, and through deaf grey skies
the sounds fall and shake and die-
mindless feedback rushing through the clouds.
but if it's all i have,
if these thoughts and sounds are my last breath,
then let them be vast and sweet.