23 January 2003 - 12:50 am
maudlin lyricism.

i opened this up because kaylen said

"eh. you're only broken because you're whole and the rest of the world's in really dangerous and abrasive shards."

and i question, i question everything. my heart tonight races like a fiend, a diabolical fiend (forgive me, i get lyrical and verbose when i read "titus groan") and there is a rushing in the wind that i can't feel. it's outside my window. i could go mad tonight, i'm surprised i haven't yet, i could go insane, and perish inside of myself within a corporeal cell starving to death. expire. perish. run out. melodramatic freak.

this is such a repeat of an earlier entry, i don't know why i'm bothering to write it except that my eyes are burning and my fingers shaking and my entire being seized with such a madness that it's like a disease, parkinson's, or a disaster ringing bells through the entirety of my system - my circulatory system is ablaze with gasoline flooding my arteries ...

i could snap my neck tonight. i could snatch up my head in both hands, spidery horrible fingers and bulbous brow, close-set eyes glazed over with a pair of glasses, thin lips twisted cruelly as i slide slantwise into bed, everything is askew. the lighting, the room, the bare wall, the odd lamp. the laundry spilling out of drawers, the silences only abated by the retarded rushing of the fan somewhere under a heap of something. maybe it bothers me more than i let on, this cluttering mess. it's like a living animal that stalked in here on heron's legs and sat down a giant tiger, or dog, shaking off the bathwater, letting it collect on every wall in a mis-array. too many metaphors.

i am a thing of metaphors and passions, all haphazardly constructed like a child playing with construction paper. green on red on black on orange like two holidays clashing, halloween and christmas, santa claus is dead and his spirit roams the earth on halloween giving out presents to little ghoulishly-clad children, and easter pink and birthday blue, the bruise you get upon entering the world, a prodigious bruise forming on your lungs as you inhale for the first time, a bruise that spreads as you grow older, slowly, a tumour, and when you're old, it hurts so much to breathe that one just collapses in on itself, a withered old plum that someone left out in the sun too long.

"you're like the martin luther king jr. for the emotional minority" kaylen says and oh god how i love her for it. and crazed thoughts ping-pong off the walls of my mind and i'm writing a song to those who cannot sing, this is a song WRITTEN in off-key just for them, so that the choral of off-key voices is symbolising disharmony in harmonic tones, and the musicality of it all is only inherent, never realised. my mind races. some strange brain-fever. i could die right now from a surprise aneurysm. o balloon man in my brain, pipe me up a blood-coloured balloon and let it waggle in the winds of my mind, and caught up in a sudden frenzied gale, let it be popped in a shower of red-soda blood, sticky and sweet to the tongue, maudlin strings in the air and a sad waltz in my honour.

on my grave perhaps a little epigram "he died before he lived" or "he was that kinda guy" or "he watched the sky a lot" or "he did stuff" or probably not even an epigram. just a date to a date linked inexorably with a hyphen and my name in graven granite. if my headstone is a heart or a cross i'll kill someone.

treccento is a lovely, maudlin word. and tonight the moon is not evident because it is so painfully aware of its own demise, the ersatz orb like a crazy dog's pale eye, lolling and bloodshot in an ocean of ink, bobbing up and down like a bobbin for a fly on a vast dark river, pulpy with the pollution of a mill far upstream. the indians clad in only loincloth stare at the river, crouched on the shore, and shake their impassive heads. feathers flutter from their ears and float downstream sadly.

tangent, jerk your head this way like whiplash from a car, and follow your eyes as my discourse runs jagged across a road like a little child hellbent on that toy store just across the busy highway and somehow manages not to get hit by any of the speeding cars, but the frantic mother crossing after him does, a pulp on the asphalt, some divine Providence that had forsaken her for the Child.

a stringed sonata rising funereally into the air. a glance sadly back over one shoulder. a shrug over that bony shoulder, that preciptious ridge that is a rockpool in my shoulder blades, filling up with water in the shower, and then when slumped, trickling waterfall down my back. evading. i shrug on a coat and walk. for a ten minute long shot the camera wavers a few times until i turn the corner at the end of the large brick building. a leaf blows across the pavement. someone sits down at the bus-stop bench.

you wonder if behind the building i'm weeping. or singing. or smiling and laughing at your expense. or praying. or stripping and running nude through the frigid air. or just

continuing

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