Monday, May 26, 2014

And, another.

As the Grubby Fingers Dip Through the Breadbasket, the World Waits in Baited Breath - Eulogy Part 2


One time there was a time where the 
only thing that mattered were the who's what's and 
what's who's and vice versa and versa vice. 
One time.

I was playing in a stream once as a child, in what
nodoubtedly would be considered a made-up memory
that cleaves, with force, onto the unsuspecting mind 
when the weird folk music starts up in full blast, watching
the ones that seem so happy in an unkind, belittled, unfair, 
falsified environment that is created by itself, and all I can 
dream about is eating fast, cheap, shitty shit that's fried in 
the depths of a hell of hilarity - utterly self-imposed, and 
utterly self-serving. 

The only thing left to hate is yourself. 

Told through broken britches that I've been taught to hate,
spoken through imaginary whispers that could have only
been the most cunning of lies, rapture comes for us all eventually
with an open mind and even more open body. It's only ever as
evident as you say it is, but evolves like everything else - into a 
puddle of nothingness like it was always supposed to be. 

No harm, no foul - that's what I was always taught too; in-between
gleaming windows that made me feel like I should be outside, wooden
boards connecting the barely existing dots that tie together the fragments 
of memory deemed important enough to keep and hold near and dear, the things 
that teach us who and what and how we make the infinite mistake. 

Selfishness is always the easy, obvious, clearly accessible/understandable/comprehendible 
way out for the uninitiated - but I'd like to invite you, dear reader, alongside on an
alternate path of sublimely sentimental regret; we all know what we're guilty of, and it
should be remembered in the best of ways - rather than the worst.

Everyone always seems to want people to tell them what they're doing wrong, but 
once what's been said has been said, all that remains is a bitter anger at the sheer nerve - 
asked for and granted - of raw honesty. Walks are harder to walk when the talk directs
every other which way in a collective state of reckless flux we couldn't possibly get 
enough of - and never will. All there is to do is push, push, push - ever so gently, at the 
light from inside the doorway. There's only one thing stopping - and Lord knows it's

not me.

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