Wednesday, 22 December 2010

The Path to Perdition, Hitchhiked

Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. The antagonisms and the lack of a strong drink. Our conscience swarming and disturbing, like flies, like thick viscous smoke. Sordid and well stocked with smiles and fears, walking backwards, thumbs out. Grinning and bucketfuls of vice for companionship, we slither and hop, down and out along the rock strewn pathway to our own and specially anticipated hell.

Fellow travelers roaring past, dodging cans and bottles, wrath and mirth, we light a fire to one another’s heavy breathing and toke it up, hold it in and get the elate. Dancing and supplicating gods and demons both, if there is even a difference. Supplied with pantings and screamings and moans, groans, lust and death, supplied with anger and laughter we stop and rest at a nearby fetid place and revel in the pods of muck filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black (these the toads sell, along side the swamp) filled with all that’s sweet and all that’s black, excepting also what’s light be also included for the price of one dream and a portion of our last crust of bread. And enter now the salving dreams which come thick and coiled as any pythonic embrace. Our arms also, clinging tight. This and the warmth of fire.

Stars so many jewels in the blackest night, perfect and cold and desolate and so very far. We scoff and sputter well into this night. The violence of truth. The intangibility of happiness and the shocking and terrible ability of our digressions/transgressions. They cling to one, stubborn, like a fine mist or disease incurable. They isolate, decorate, marks of torture or badges of honour all. The violence of truth clashing on our shields of mirth and irony. Dance my love, dance, long into the gentle night.

Laughter in the dark and a stranger's knife in broad daylight, cold against our throat, waking us. Robbed of our last scrapings of sustenance and a few coppers we are free. Our steps so much lighter as we move once more, free and well pleased and placed. Hitchhiking our way down the well worn path to perdition. Skipping and pausing and lapping it up. Grinning like wolves. This case, as in most, the journey so much better than the destination…

Sunday, 19 December 2010

Your Silence

You are evil by your constraint
Your silence
It is like a whip
A scourge
A demon
Feasting upon all my tears
Fears and heartbreak
Your silence
Lingers like a behemoth
Sifts through the air
Like smoke choking
And you are evil also by your
Attempts at salvation
You break all bonds and hurdles
I have placed to entrap you
Silence so loud and
Frightening hurts
My trembling sensation
Stabs my interior with ulterior
My hands are rough with the scrubbing
But the stains remain, remain
Clear here, there
For all and sunder
My guilt equates your evil
My heart is two ounces of
Conspiracy against us
However, your silence does not breed
Because of my will
Because of my longing to remember you
As someone good
But it does, it must
It festers, hurts, swells
Your beautiful eyes
Smiling crooked in stolen pictures
Silence like a scourge, a whip
You are evil by your
Longevity and opposition
Your silence