Thought had boiled over in the morning.
I lay in consequence, my surroundings sit in neglect apart from my mortal life. Restlessly awake and hopelessly twined near my night table. My bed is a coffin in weary sense. The hardwood is a waste-bin victimed to my mental illness. Bottles stacked high from a night unremembered, my stomach far away from anything remotely normal. Beyond any conscious thought, ‘Monday’ rings aloud in my head behind the bells tolled from nearing chapels. I wake this morning in an expected gloam, in annoyance to a mere mechanical ticking nuisance.
This beating alarm has never been anything new, alarm for a day like the last, alarm for the next Sunday when I rest my eyes in drunken misery.
Crying willow will you watch as I mourn this thought. Beyond the pane of the window.
Catch me, as I stumble from above, back down to this earth with nothing but teeth and brain like the righteous holy man I never was;
Drawing on darkness and decent into weary sorrow, behind old helm and brick-laiden cities
of beyond,
Calling upon something to fix my despondency
Eerily fixated upon nothingness and death,
As if no God ever existed.
In heaven was my father’s lie.
Best be this message rung loudly! I say, stumbling ‘round in my filth and unholy consumption. Clinking so clunk-enly around my dreaded stay— muttering madness underneath my breath, cursing John Keats— For ‘Ode-ing’ to some melodious plot is far beyond my reach ‘no more!
Best be my death! Best be some gruel ending to an endless saga!
Slithering my legs around the floorboards, trying to grab the purse of opiates beyond my extent, my mind wanders far away from what lies before my eyes. In such time of bestial unsatisfaction, I tap, tap, tap at my eyes in the case they were glass and tricking me in some sense.
The world is a storming sea now, now, rich brown leather padding upon my floorboards.
Because before my very false eye is sparkling ecstasy of something fathomed in a dream.
And in any case, nothing of that satisfaction could be true.
Jackal had chased rabbit to failure, as I scramble around my mind chasing lost thoughts slowly fading away to this new day.
Shovelling opiate down and into my mouth.
The recollection of my unconscious thought haunts my deserving innocence, being one-in-the-million of employed men who crawl this earth. Hallowed be the man who limps upon his wake, for my eyes shutter in question of this reality before me. Blink and there it all is again. Blink to watch it gone. Recurring faces in which I kill, latch, or miss, float around the fragments of my memory that stick true. Everything imaginable is inexplicably unfavorable by dawn, all casted ‘round me in euphoria at break.
Watching, watching as my life had come to this very point on such a dreaded Monday. I’ve finally thrown open the gates. To which I have decided to dig my own.
He who decides this fate, is he, religiously me.
Yet I am plagued by solemn commitments, ones in which fall behind the graceful thought of spilling my life into the unknown.
I am ready for this next world — I say, ready for the next.
Upon flamelight nearing my face, with pen and paper I recount the evocations of young and youth, nearing devil’s roaring midnight hour I write;
[1:1] In the horrendous beginning, when god created the heavens and me,
[1:2] The Earth was a perfunctory gesture of greed and evil for those who had no choice, living in his vision of some voided machine-world.
[1:3] Then God in all magnificence and prose said “Let there be Darkness.” And there was harsh darkness.
[1:4] And darkness fell upon the palisades of my mind, God finding his chosen loser, and all of that being ‘good.’
[1:5] “Let there be little light, from beam to keyhole in metaphor to a dim ideal for all that has been before you.”
[1:6] And then God created real darkness in the human caveat, erecting nightclubs and illicit substances that run rampant in the night.
[1:7] The earth, in plagued sorrow, brought forward thunderstorms and prostitutes to reign upon the weak and weary, to shadow man in his lonesome image.
[1:8] With his eye, God watched as the swarm of man flock towards what little light had been casted upon the earth, and laughed.
[1:9] Peddled with rose and lust, sinking mud from the running living, the darkness left behind scrambling earth is lonesome and tired.
[1:10] And God, with his hand and blade, split his palm and let ichor rain upon me.
As the left eye of mine began to close in sorrow from my own words, my fountain pen pierced the inside of my wrist. Blood and ink amalgamation began to spill upon my work, as I envisioned God had done in my writing.
In my replication, I grew ashamed. In the presence of Lord, may I drowsily lay, for his rule is unlike that of any. Yet I have put myself in the very place that I must've been warned never to impede, that of mortality, that of a place beyond God.
Moonlight and wind carried into my loft had jolted my presence, and warned me that blown wind is enough to quiet a wick. The crackling had left my home, the light, and my day. All gone, all finally departed.
My mind had never registered them, clouded by this sorrow, I drift into my own world. Into my own vision of this sullied earth. As my eyes alert from a stiff and brittle state, moving oh-so slowly south to the top of my obituary, laid flat upon my table.
My Face filled with horror,
beyond a ghastly gaze, a tried and true pact was set and sealed.
The striking sight of this promise had been made in blood from my own hand, the agreement had been made in hatred ink, this deed upon any, would be made tonight.
Great descending, intoxicated flurry of my mind envisions man, me as man, guided by shadowing figures who lurk in the imagination. Caught between hands and arms of the dead– guided downwards, a path of stairs into infinite darkness. The hands of the hall grab and pull my clothing, my eyes, and my being.
In the wrap of this sickening, ill, way of my beholding.
That this dread of life worth living, carried down with me, is nothing more than that of the merest parody of the great dark beast of death that sits higher than,
Any bit of my soul that has chosen to live a life outside the garden of eden,
In unknowing of whom I may be with my clothes off.
Drifted away with this envisioning, nothing may exist before my eye except a bloodied pact and ideas of darkened grandeur, slowly closing my eye to the beat of the water droplets below my faucet tap, with all of this, finally in my mind.
Slowly drifting towards the topside of my desk and slowly letting the sound collage the ways I’d finally go,
The tapping begins to grow louder,
And the rain fell as God made it to do.
Yet pierced beyond a knocking, is a clacking, growing so closely to my stay.
Highlighted red majesty shoes aproned on a wet cement sidewalk.
Ripped from a dreary,
I, now peering, down from a cill way above.
A silhouetted figure in the faded drab of green and grey is drawing so awfully close to my dreaded stay,
Cloaked to match the night, in eminence of a wanderer with a destination set, her gait was something of a promptness. Moving in such a heavenly manner. In rhythm, In time, from when my restless eye watched as she made her very way.
Lustful ivy and hedera fall behind her, brushing her legs and casting her appearance as a lengthy long one, emerging from bleak nothingness.
Almost yet, I ask why, why must some elegant thing enter such an ungodly kingdom of cement and sorrow— with such dispenseful stupidity, as if the rainfall wasn’t enough of a warning.
Under the porchlight I know that she waits nakedly.
From my blood splattered mess to now awakened alert,
For God and nothing more expected me to answer tonight,
From a man with nothing more.
I entered the archway to my stay, abhorred to the door before me.
Beyond is restless and eager life, so far away from anything this dark and depraved.
Innocent life, so very close to my stay, in expectancy of wine and starch and entry.
As any woman would, with God’s hand in mind.
Beyond my reach for this handle, she has gratefully no idea the horrors that lurk inside of my mind, as when I open this door, the clash of two separate vessels of eternity will begin.
As they did when he created the Heavens and Hell.
I deliberated the reasoning for her visit as I watched her cheekbones beyond a toil of smoke that bellowed from a pot upon the stove. She sits kindly at my rounded altar in the brasserie, fixated on the mess of things I had left around the house.
My great illness before her, she, abstaining from horror.
Could she be an appraiser of death, knowing exactly what I had on my mind tonight?
A lame, perforated message sent by the heavens in hopes to keep me intact for my next miserable Sunday?
As the opiates begin to wear, my rigid cold and dead-feeling hands reach for the blade that would lay beneath my kitchen counter.
Stagnant clock ticking, ticking, as I chop the melody between apples parceled upon the cutting board. This great meal I prepare for an unwarranted woman, slips beyond my pineal grasp, now graced with this comedown of my withered being and the unbearable coldness that my drug had prevented me from.
As I take breaths between my cuts and portioning, she awaits in a juvenile state, but beyond her is the window in which I watched her scurry. Awakened from that dreary sorrow, the very rain that had shielded her from my perception is now beating down, down, like a loud devilish drum.
In the crack of Lighting,
I, a showman for God, now spotlighted in a horrifically comedic scene.
Battling the wave of these sights, sounds, and responsibilities of man, all equally devastating to me.
All crashing, down, around.
Unshackled are the chains that held my hands down to my sides.
Away from the kitchen daggers,
Swallowing throat, in fear of taking much more.
I slip my clenching grip of the fruit destined to be prepared, sliding the blade deep inside my hand.
Reluctant to bear emotion, in fear of showing this hamlet and her any sort of bother, would melt my mystique and facade in my nearing execution.
This pain, nearly slipping away from my mouth and out of my breath, seeping and seething pain and mess of blood upon my rags and clothes dripping onto the tile below the stove,
Through the cracks of the seal, and equivalently spread throughout them,
Each canal of blood below me flows calculated along the kitchen floor.
A second of clarity, before this mortal desecration of my being, poised to be impure and unholy allowed for a greater judgement on to how I would go,
This great sharpness of a blade and this mess of blood around my stay would be too much to impose on such a pure soul,
As if I had driven this very cooking blade into to my stomach and guided the split— she too would be as impure as I,
God only fears our knowing, that he isn’t.
To relay the only chivalry known,
Setting two bowls to dine,
Her’s with majestic apples boiled,
Morphine, tramadol, oxycodone in mine.
