spilled milk
what do we do about all the spilled milk so plentiful, the spilling never done, each day bringing new horrors, new soul violations, new losers begging "please mr. policeman why don't you just kill me?"
"can you endure? can you bear another weight? is there anything left inside of you or are you as empty as your sunken eyes?”
when i was a child, i laid in green grass watching clouds turn to snarling bunny rabbits intent on revenge for past abuses, born to die as mute test objects, mere conduits of news for anxious women wringing their hands, wondering if life had implanted in empty wombs.
does anything ever end the way it began?
need and desire all wrapped into some crazy tortilla, blood red, stained with the tears of another barren moon. do you need what you desire? do you desire what you need? does one thing have anything to do with another or should all the desires and needs be forgotten, dumped into the crematorium of dreams? what difference does a dream really make?
why are sleep and rest so very different? how can i sleep for hours and still wake cold, alone, and filled with sad fatigue? some nights i wake screaming in the dark, full of words i cannot write fast enough, speaking languages i've never heard but somehow know. days, nights, weeks of sleep will never cast off this heavy coat of fatigue and regret i always wear.
and the quest, oh yes the quest to find a place i could belong... how could i not see what others could see so clearly? i can no longer pretend. i belong nowhere, i belong anywhere, i push, i fall away, i scream "let me go, get away from me!" then follow up with "don’t go, don't leave me alone!"
so we come to the place all the milk has spilled, to the time where all the clocks stop, and time will scream the secrets i've tried so hard not to hear. i wake alone always. i tell myself i will not be ignored but i am invisible and unseen. i say exactly what i mean but mean none of it.
in the dark, i light the spliff and fill my lungs with the cool smoke. i'll never be all right and the only thing real to me is the smoke in my lungs. i took off the shoes i thought i had to walk in and now i walk without shoes, so numb i can't feel the glass slicing my feet and as the blood runs into the spilled milk, it is so very clear that nothing will ever be good enough again.
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. As for length, no sweat. Next time we might make a word/line limit, depends on what you all reckon after this trial run.
