3am Musings

A bed that sweats cold around you
Creatures scratching at every orifice of the darkened room
A roaring in the distance draws dragons and disaster in your head
Maybe one day you will laugh at this
and the hollows of your eyes will fade
to crescent moons in the pale of your face

Or maybe you will weep
Tear the hair from its fading bed
and clutch at times fabric
with salty chapped hands

Or perhaps you will get stuck
staring at a wall

Sometimes She Burns Me

Sometimes she is in your face
all the blazing color and heat
of a faraway star

Sometimes she burns too exuberantly
I warn her that she will soon fade
as I watch her
give all her heat away

Sometimes she is sleeping ash
pale and fragile and
I dare not disturb her
with a breath of gentle encouragement
lest her pieces scatter

Sometimes she is slow and black as mud
She reaches out like an ancient mammoth in a tar pit
I fear she may pull me into that thick suffocation with her

Sometimes she is next to me
Pale and childlike
needing my ear to steady her

Sometimes months pass of no consequence
I do not worry about her

Sometimes I miss being needed
and scold myself

Sometimes she speaks in rhyme and song
and her jokes go on just a little too long
Her eyes are too wide her lipstick too red
I fear being swallowed by that smile but
she dances just out of reach

Sometimes a shooting star crosses my path
and I wish for her eternal sun

Existence Is Too Loud

I can’t stand this sensation.

Every hair a needle, bugs crawling,
zapping me all over.
Pain in my head like brain freeze, zero to suicide every hour.
Graphic images flashing through my head,
urges that scare me with shocks shooting though my heart.
Jaw aching from biting back anger and tears. Lump in my throat choking me,
a bitter taste burning my mouth.
Pain racing through my hands and feet.
The constant holding back of hateful outbursts
and panic attacks. Disgusted with myself,
the feel of my hair across my face, the clothes against my skin,
repulses me. A desperate cold in my chest.
Flushes of heat have me tearing at my clothes, convinced I am being burnt
or fearing I will pass out. The fear is back, the guilt, the self-loathing.
Faces loom over me, distorted judging stares, whispers behind hands,
people on the wrong end of the binoculars.
Acid trickles down my back
as shadows creep up behind me, frightening forms in the dark.

His Checkered Shirt

It had slipped behind the couch in a long forgotten passion. Crumpled into a corner of cat hair and superfluous cigarette papers. She came across it while vacuuming the past out of the carpet, a punishment, a penance, a relief. As the vacuum squealed and choked on its greedy meal she rushed to the shirts rescue, drawing it slowly from the machines throat like a magicians never ending scarf.

She gathered the crumpled shirt into a ball, meaning to add it to the ordered pile by the door, but the familiar feel of the fabric, softened by wear, caused her to hesitate. Guiltily darting into the half emptied wardrobe, she daringly pressing her nose and mouth into the folds. A bold attack of scent and memory flew through her and she stifled an animal cry.

I want it all. I want it now.

Like rushing towards the peak of an orgasm but you need one more stroke. Denied, denied.

Like you have already been shot up with all the speed in the world but it’s a ticking time bomb you have to continuously top up.

What can you take, what can you smoke, what can you devour, what can you fuck.

What do you care? About the stares. The stairs to the heavens.

 

This Chocolate Cake Is Too Rich

Heartache, it is an acid permeating throughout my body with each beat.
Fighting to rise in my tight throat,
an ache in my hands and feet.

Tears wait just below the surface, in between lives is a strange place to be.
Missing something that no longer exists
is easier than being cut off from the source of enrichment.
I find myself caged by my own bitter mistakes, desperately reaching through the cold bars for what used to be sustenance. I am left,
to slowly starve the loss from my bones.

I Stare At The Sea

echo_by_kidchan-d34j2eo

kidchan.deviantart.com

The waves are noisy children, pawing for attention,

tumbling, bickering, showing off.

The solitary seagull turns its head, too mature for such antics.

They race up to a potential playmate,

the nervous child curls her toes at their eager approach,

then runs back to he shelter of a nearby man,

whose gaze is distant from the shore.

The waves bring offerings of broken shells and tangled seaweed,

tossing the proud collection at his feet.

As a last attempt they band together, rushing

in gleeful excitement towards his sun warmed skin.

The icy embrace draws a squeal of delight from the child,

the man returns like the rush of the wave.

Web of Despair

Her eyes snapped open.

Her body was damp with perspiration. She felt drugged and heavy, each limb saturated with thick sorrow. But her eyes were panicked, darting this way and that, looking for a way out. Carcasses of past loves, hopes and regrets surrounded her. The sense of loss was so intense the air seemed to quiver and vibrate with it.

The thoughts and visions attached themselves to her very spirit with strong, sticky threads of control. Their oppressive poison seeped through her veins, causing a surge of unbearable pain. She wanted to scream, to release it in a heartbreaking cry, but the thick sticky threads were coiling around her throat, suffocating her. The outside world became muffled and she began to give in to her drugged state.

As a final stab of despair pierced her tired heart she made one last attempt to cry for help. She screamed with her soul, begged with her bones and told through her tears her desperation for freedom. Although no sound emitted from her broken body, someone felt it.

As a shaft of light broke through her dark prison she felt the poison being sucked from her veins and life being breathed into her once again. The threads turned brittle and shattered as she pushed her way out, into the light.

Diaspora

I miss my love affair with the City. Playing different characters each day as I climbed the steep streets in search of romantic experiences. The silent sense of self importance as I lit my smoke and cradled my coffee. Entering my favorite bookstore looking for the next shining gem to transport me out of the dark. Sitting stoned, watching the waterfall, sharing secret smiles with other cosmic travelers. Shopping for fantasy underwear and planning the next night of passion. Playing housewife and hostess, the envy of the men who tried to steal me away. When the colours began to fade and the walls close in, I would simply smoke it all away, feeling the paints flow once again with each deep inhale.

Diaspora¬† –¬† movement or migration of a group of people away from an ancestral homeland