Through a day of cockroaches
with an endless match burning down to my forehead
I see her
the pretty girl in white
a basic metaphor for purity
or even salvation
white as prozac
promised to death
the newest symbol of disgust
to all these pathetic people
wielding pitchforks in the starless night
(for they have speared the stars and eaten them around a tyre fire
singing microtonal songs of sad existentialism
dermatologists of the minutiae of their soul’s impetigo)
I cough smog on my Madonna
choking on the blackest bone
and she crinkles her eyes
the wishbone lands in my hands
and I snap it desiring to be dead
and so it is done
miracles do exist
Written earlier this afternoon when everything seemed unbearable, including stopping this diatribe from staining my page. A moment thoroughly infected with cockroaches.
I wake up with a hessian hood of morning fuzz over my eyes. My mind has torn its pull-cord ripping at it so hard and now the engine screams like a buzzsaw in my inner ear. And still people wonder why I wince walking out into morning glare. It’s not my eyes; no, my eyes are fine. They are connected by some nerve bundle to the part of the brain i need them to be connected to. The problem is not my eyes but what I see. Each worried mother, each anxious child tottering off to school, each red-faced driver screaming spittle at the inside of his window. Constant construction noises and building anxiety. It’s like rubbing salt into your eyes and having a staring contest with the sun. I’d rather watch some prehistoric graffiti on a marble pillar slowly rot. I don’t want to be a retail assistant. I don’t want to be successful. I want to be my own man. I want to lay here depressed and only have myself to let down. I don’t want to march on out into the day like another young-boy sacrifice in a war that means nothing to me or our Freedom. I want to sleep the day through, the month, the year. Another cycle of the sun. I want to close my eyes on it. High in the sacked palace of my thoughts I consider jumping into the dragon’s mouth so that at least one of us can get what they want. At some point I will assassinate myself so thoroughly that I will be able to jut my foot from doona cover onto frozen floorboard and I will, I know it’s just a matter of time, put on the uniform and the boots and the cracked smile and the mask and go out into the modern world. I may be late— first I need to tattoo under one eyelid my serial number, my office punch-in, my address and passwords; and under the other some inspirational phrase I can chant like a koan. But right now my bones are too heavy to transfer in this odd receptacle which smells like dust and cigarette butts. Smoke in my eye. Morning goo in my eye. Conjunctivitis of buildup of filth I digest and purify and spit out as pretty pellets of either wisdom or humour. My system is sick with it. And when I march in through those automatic doors so accomodating into the hypodermic fluorescence of the office I will shield my eyes and think about coming home eventually, if I’m lucky, into my warm sack and rolling around on the Egyptian sheets of my 800 thread count drug highs, my eyes getting red and tired again.
My 24 karat molecular vivisection and lego renaissance .
Wanted to revisit and touch-up this one. Let me know what you think.
(Probably could do with a self-harm trigger warning. Love love.)
Sook Samsara 28/9/17