SCREAM RANT

If you die first and there’s life after death, could you write about it in pink lipstick on my mirror so I will see it in the morning when I am shaving? I want to know, and I think that would be a nice way to find out… Could a ghost spell out a sentence for me in liqueur chocolates? Or would a dead lover of mine appear before me in my sleep and write to me with wet kisses on the skin of my chest? Or dip her pale non-corporeal feet in honey and dance across my kitchen floor in a love letter of sweet honest proof of post mortem existence?
Ah, lie to me, lie to me.
Show me, ah… yes, perhaps…
The colours in the dreams of a girl who has been blind since birth, build me a ship from the fingernails of the dead, let me make love to a woman who eats only moonlight and grows fat as it waxes and starves as it wanes, I will grip a nest of snakes that cannot untie themselves from each other and must eat by some bizarre cooperation, and I will watch a bird that steals time and feeds it to its children howl across the pale sky of morning.
GIVE US WINGS, WINGS, WINGS! THOUGH WE PLUNGE INTO THE SEA!
Oh well, what the hell, sang McWatt. There is only us and there is only, after all, the devastating illusion, the spell that blinds us as we sing our lives.
She walks toward me in the glowing air the wire of her tattoos spiking outwards and holding, pricking the material of her shift.
“Where did you score the speed man?”
“There was no speed I have manic depression I keep it in a jar on the dressing table with all the mirrors all the mirrors I am a freak and a lunatic that means I am driven by the eagerness of the moon and I stand and shake in its light all night in the bright of it the bite of it! You can’t see me but I can see you and I will never tell you the secrets that I have seen when I was riding my bike by the river in the middle maybe the edge of the passionless still of the hour before dawn.”
Allow me the discretion the desecration. A big hairy fucking spider crawling up the back of my head.
Can I borrow your nail polish? I’ll give it back I promise. Meet you on the beaches of a sea of human teeth. Bathing in the sun. BATHING. In the SUN!
In the sun.
Ah…
Baking rigid in my own ribcage full of dust.
Take a deep breath. Remember me. Speak to me in the morning when we wake up our eyes slow and heavy and your skin like a warm world soft so soft so soft it is almost not there and perhaps it isn’t perhaps I am still alone and have made such fucking STUPID mistakes and fool hard hard hard idiot excuses.
Toast for me. Cereal for you.
Coffee and skinny legs. Sensuous and sinuous. Mundane and cruel. I have a milk carton full of stars.
Shut UP brain!
Just about had it with you!
Somewhere, something in the canyons of our vital exhausting victories. A frightened man lost in an ecstasy of dreams. Elsewhere. Nowhere. Else-when.
Love-sticky mouths setting us up in human and animal rhymes such a lingering kiss, oh stay with me spend the night smoke uncoiling your back pressed against me.
So how does your life progress, does it trip along in the aisles, are you bitter? Are you lonely? Is there more than this? Heart flame and hip shudder, a knife blade spearing us with desire. Turning on its edge. Laying us out here. Scratched over our bodies.
For me yes, put your small hands, such small hands, around my throat. The world loneliness, feel it in the back of your mouth, in the wetness of your cheeks. Push it around with the ends, the tips of your cigarette-stained fingers. Sleeping with me on the railroad tracks, the sky spreading around us an unknowable divine algorithm, an infinite scar of traced schemes and mechanics, a pressured measure of star-light, a coercion a compulsion, a spinning wild and furious END. It ends us.
And I am so tired all the time, my neck aches and my wide eyes sting. I don’t understand anything of how the rest of the world seems to be able to carry out the tasks that they do, I can’t I won’t I don’t get it, I don’t I don’t.
The world, seared by the hands of man.
Write the best poetry lines of your life in giant red felt tip pen all over me.
I am ok. I am, I’m… just tired, I –
Hnnn… awareness spreads like the blood in my body through me, like ink over the world around me, dousing it, dipping it in my observation before it sizzles on my skin and billows in echoes of black steam. Soft hands in the dark and plates and masques and a fire that is conscious and walks across the pale, dry and furious, scoured and ancient earth. Stars, we are made from stars!
I hold such things, such a collection a vault of minds a field of days, a skin of mornings, a need of longing. A longing for need.
More and more one after another pressing their faces to ancient stories, cults of prayer, of force, so very, very many, stricken with imagination and beauty, splendour, ecstasy, love and war. Crying out from beneath the waves.
A Pair of old shoes by the door and no-one, not anyone here but me.
Wet your long beautiful finger and dip it in the earth. Press it, hard, against my forehead. Paint tears for me in earth. Mix them with your own.
Dying is easy it’s what I’m living for. Sworn to secrecy and blood vows and blood letting and I swear I swear that is what we did not my idea hers and we bled for each other and into each other like the ghouls the ghasts the wights the vampires the fermented fragmented souls and boiling lives that we are. Angel mouth… a gluttony of souls.
Are things sad do things hurt? Who do you prefer?
Let me out and let me drown.
Let me in and let me down.
Pinch my nose between serrated thumb and calloused fore-finger.
Push my jaw with the hard heel of your aching other hand and fucking
SCREAM
DOWN
MY
THROAT.

• Favorite
• Report Concern
• Share This
  • Facebook
  • Twitter

Add your comment

You need to login or signup to add your comment to this work.

Tags:

passion, paul, robertson and writing