Weight of my heart, not the size.
-AIC.
It’s just a test
A game for us to play
Win or loose it’s hard to smile
-Steve Harley and The Cockney Rebel.
How to survive. There are practical measures that avoid me I tend to veer towards loud things that bruise me. Sonic things that fuck like a professional, that get you higher than any available deity and or drug of choice.
As I did sit ups on the blue hall carpet my spine screaming under all the weight that I had let accumulate on my abused corpse I could hear his fingers scratching and depressing the strings.
All of this and glory too.
There is a trick that I must master. To store conversation and allow it to ripen rather than throw it down like a bad hand at every available opportunity.
Do we all hate each other? At times, yes. There is no indication of the path. I desire illumination. I get none but like Gatsby I still beat on…. and on…. and on…
The green light that promises that it will all turn and that history will change. That I can amend all my seemingly fatal mistakes. That Daisy will leave Tom and fold into my battered arms and I can fix it. I am worthy, watch me.
Tricking my body, short bursts of fevered and painful activity. It hurts and I like it. I think that I like it a little too much to tell the truth.
My mind wanders all over what I have left behind me once again. Raquel’s eyes flashing private laughter and dark humour into mine across an asshole filled room, Wondering if Miss Kitten has refrained from returning to the one that I believe left unchecked will finally kill her, Miss terror on the train to tattoo town every day.
Vanity makes me question weather I occur to them as richly and vividly as they occur to me. I doubt it; somehow have always had far too much time on my hands.
No forgiveness, just numb acceptance.
The owner of the bar has the most chilling blue eyes and lilting voice that turns every sentence into an enquiry .I find it hard to look at him, his vowels clipped, hands soft through air, liquid silver, age, time.
If we could only hook into peoples history like a fish to be caught. I am a fiend for fables, to see, to look, a voyeur and I see it constructed of soft paper leather bound, things pressed between pages stolen private and sacred. All we are is some kind of story. Lost to death.
There is zero recovery.
Everything falls.
The friendly barmaid with the blunt fringe has a red radio birdmen tattoo on the inside of her wrist. I close my eyes and drift on tides that have no name but don’t give up.
If you stay quiet you have no origin. Silence is its own language and is as noisy as any other.
Bottles wink slyly at you from their mirrored enclaves behind the bar. On a clear day the whole world wants to get a finger under the elastic leg of your knickers and buy you a beer.
Call you baby, honey forever.
(I just can’t stand it, I cant, and I cant…)
On a strong day the thieves creep in. They know that you are on top of your game, that you are otherwise occupied with self-congratulary focus, the beating of your drum, the fighting of your war.
By the time you crash [and you will crash my little solider] and your medals are nothing but glorified tin you will look around and know that you have been robbed again. Remind yourself constantly that you are to blame.
Hate is my co-pilot and I admit to it. Not going to be a fake Mr feel good type, not going to lie.
I used to always think that something would come up but I know in my heart of hearts that there is no 11th hour reprieve for trash like me.
SF4L
Michele.
