unholyangel
Bluelighter
- Joined
- Jan 2, 2001
- Messages
- 516
~~early~~
This early, no one is awake,
not the Sunday morning drivers
off to repent a week’s worth of sin,
or the gas station clerk wrinkled and hung-over.
It's Spring and I haven't kept
all my New Year's resolutions
to stop consorting with innocent criminals,
the kind taking needle over hand
killing themselves one baggy at a time.
The attendant forks over cigarettes to
my vacant-eyed partner as I struggle with consciousness
as coffee takes hold. His face shrouded
by coarse curls, an apparition of a boy keeping
secrets, but I already know.
Neither of us were born with these scars,
but their presence is a lingering reminder
of how they came. Only time separates
me and my last pipe dream and watching this is breaking
down will power I never wished to challenge.
I'm bearing witness to another drowning, another round of seduction
to which I cannot partake, even though we are
supposedly lovers. I wonder which he'll turn to
when we get home, even though I don't always
love him and he isn't always so beautiful.
It kills me to know that his anticipation lies
in the barely audible piercing of flesh, the injection
of suicidal reverie instead of my soft curve
from waist into hips, the gift of being young and feminine.
The stench of incense still makes
my mouth water, stomach cramp, eyes tear up
and close in hazy vision that I deny the existence of.
There's not much surprise in this latest episode of
'Over-Doing'. He'll recover, be sick as all hell, retreat into
old habits and repeat the damnable cycle again and
again. My dysfunctional family of brothers and sisters
orphaned by sensibility and plagued by laudanum hallucination.
We've got a sacred pact as those who've opted out of
'Hi, my name is'. Our relationship of shared blood and
coinciding nightmares, we have seen each other's demons
and loved them still the same.
In place of analysis, I just point the car in the direction of home
taking a haphazard path for the sake of thinking,
and I see his head lull again out of the corner of my eye.
Vulnerability isn't an issue, I am his envy of
untapped veins, a web of perfect blue lost long ago.
His wounds may never heal, his heart so full of
desire he'll probably just explode. Or he'll drift off
as though sleeping a sleep where clarity will never come.
I do not want this hunger for escapism,
but I can reach through this midnight extended to survive,
though grasping for air. Falling awake.
------------------
if we are what we eat, then what is to be said of what we choose to listen to...?
This early, no one is awake,
not the Sunday morning drivers
off to repent a week’s worth of sin,
or the gas station clerk wrinkled and hung-over.
It's Spring and I haven't kept
all my New Year's resolutions
to stop consorting with innocent criminals,
the kind taking needle over hand
killing themselves one baggy at a time.
The attendant forks over cigarettes to
my vacant-eyed partner as I struggle with consciousness
as coffee takes hold. His face shrouded
by coarse curls, an apparition of a boy keeping
secrets, but I already know.
Neither of us were born with these scars,
but their presence is a lingering reminder
of how they came. Only time separates
me and my last pipe dream and watching this is breaking
down will power I never wished to challenge.
I'm bearing witness to another drowning, another round of seduction
to which I cannot partake, even though we are
supposedly lovers. I wonder which he'll turn to
when we get home, even though I don't always
love him and he isn't always so beautiful.
It kills me to know that his anticipation lies
in the barely audible piercing of flesh, the injection
of suicidal reverie instead of my soft curve
from waist into hips, the gift of being young and feminine.
The stench of incense still makes
my mouth water, stomach cramp, eyes tear up
and close in hazy vision that I deny the existence of.
There's not much surprise in this latest episode of
'Over-Doing'. He'll recover, be sick as all hell, retreat into
old habits and repeat the damnable cycle again and
again. My dysfunctional family of brothers and sisters
orphaned by sensibility and plagued by laudanum hallucination.
We've got a sacred pact as those who've opted out of
'Hi, my name is'. Our relationship of shared blood and
coinciding nightmares, we have seen each other's demons
and loved them still the same.
In place of analysis, I just point the car in the direction of home
taking a haphazard path for the sake of thinking,
and I see his head lull again out of the corner of my eye.
Vulnerability isn't an issue, I am his envy of
untapped veins, a web of perfect blue lost long ago.
His wounds may never heal, his heart so full of
desire he'll probably just explode. Or he'll drift off
as though sleeping a sleep where clarity will never come.
I do not want this hunger for escapism,
but I can reach through this midnight extended to survive,
though grasping for air. Falling awake.
------------------
if we are what we eat, then what is to be said of what we choose to listen to...?
