leiphos
Bluelighter
- Joined
- May 8, 2008
- Messages
- 1,147
I.
Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. Swaying. Seasick. Twisting. Burning. Stars strung from the roof.
They step outside. The party goes on.
Blue balcony. Blue wind. A circle. A railing. He leans.
Eyes. Everyone focused on someone. Clear. Sharp. Fixed. Yellow. Blue. Green. Red. Max’s eyes on him.
Away.
Seconds. Minutes. Everyone is gone. Buildings. Green fingers touching windows. Blue horizon. Red horizon. Sickening. Beautiful. Yellow. Blue. Red.
Dance music in his mouth. Lights in his ears. A moon bending along the sky. Red, blue, green, yellow.
He leaves because he must.
II.
Midnight strip-mined with rain. Million street-lamps caught in cross-fire of rain and headlights.
Remember the sick joke we played on Max again and again until he died from the sickness?
“There’s Max,” he says. An overcoat smoking the sidewalk. Puffing. Wake up stupid. He killed you back. He’s not going to wake up from this dense nightmare. So quiet he’s spiritually dead. Heart beating gunfire. The morning will knife without mercy, I promise.
Max fell from the sky with rain. His eyes sink through his head singing gospel.
Headache patterns, regions of the solar wind panels in his brain, moon phases he read about too late last night, or too soon this morning. All slowly returning. Amnesia.
The Picasso blue airplane of a crowd almost bumps into him before it disappears into the moon.
He’s falling through the Earth. He’s lost in this confusing place scarred with street signs admitting nothing. Rain in air like static. Will I ever get home? Will Max ever stop
standing there, smoking his cigarette, smoking it red for revenge.
In the middle of the street. Planetarium of headlights. Traffic tracers cutting black. Horns on. Tires spitting. Gasping. Falling. This feeling doesn’t have a name.
III.
Sunrise.
Red. Blue. Yellow. Green. Swaying. Seasick. Twisting. Burning. Stars strung from the roof.
They step outside. The party goes on.
Blue balcony. Blue wind. A circle. A railing. He leans.
Eyes. Everyone focused on someone. Clear. Sharp. Fixed. Yellow. Blue. Green. Red. Max’s eyes on him.
Away.
Seconds. Minutes. Everyone is gone. Buildings. Green fingers touching windows. Blue horizon. Red horizon. Sickening. Beautiful. Yellow. Blue. Red.
Dance music in his mouth. Lights in his ears. A moon bending along the sky. Red, blue, green, yellow.
He leaves because he must.
II.
Midnight strip-mined with rain. Million street-lamps caught in cross-fire of rain and headlights.
Remember the sick joke we played on Max again and again until he died from the sickness?
“There’s Max,” he says. An overcoat smoking the sidewalk. Puffing. Wake up stupid. He killed you back. He’s not going to wake up from this dense nightmare. So quiet he’s spiritually dead. Heart beating gunfire. The morning will knife without mercy, I promise.
Max fell from the sky with rain. His eyes sink through his head singing gospel.
Headache patterns, regions of the solar wind panels in his brain, moon phases he read about too late last night, or too soon this morning. All slowly returning. Amnesia.
The Picasso blue airplane of a crowd almost bumps into him before it disappears into the moon.
He’s falling through the Earth. He’s lost in this confusing place scarred with street signs admitting nothing. Rain in air like static. Will I ever get home? Will Max ever stop
standing there, smoking his cigarette, smoking it red for revenge.
In the middle of the street. Planetarium of headlights. Traffic tracers cutting black. Horns on. Tires spitting. Gasping. Falling. This feeling doesn’t have a name.
III.
Sunrise.
