Crazed Thoughts at 1 am
Serial Something
Delicious milk-white teeth sucked on with a side of pork belly gelatin to drink. I grace thee with the visual of a vulture's petal drenched in wine. Carry, carry me away. Grasp me with your claws and slash my silver skin open. Nothing will come out. I think myself dry, like the planet you abandoned at the edge of your oak secretary. I think and think and smoke blasts out of my eyes and I can't cry. There is no space to do so. And I am happy, for crying is for those who live out of sea. My tears become my air. My air fills my lungs with poetry and cheap How To Live novels of those who could not imagine my pain. The air thickens with plastic from the make up you wear and tell me you don't.
I see it, the glint of the theater's spotlights you shine on me. And I hate it. The cheer and laughter of the price-tags sat on red cushioned chairs stuffed with rotten rubbery bones of the peoples that died for land, for war, for honor. I hate that I am no more a leech than you, just less of, and cannot escape this voided abyss that sucks us dry which we cut at the bottom. The vultures snare and smile and squeal like the pigs they are. Whatever does not get down is dragged up toward the fake grey clouds of burnt coal and dead forest. I cannot bear it, this guilt, this patience, this spectacle. I hate it here. For as vast as this thick ocean is, it is suffocating, and we made it that way./
Sing me a lullaby, oh horned devil, with your pink bubbly skin and knifed beak. I shall listen to it with my mind and see it through my childhood. The egg I once was leaks out of my pores like sweat and falls down my forehead and back and tail. I am no more a helpless babe than the baby crying to be held. We all refuse to grow, we all refuse to leave. We all refuse to fight. They engineered us that way, they raised us that way. The vultures I mean. They like it. How victimized we are, and lonely, and desperate. Makes it all the easier to grab, even with how greasy we've become, greasy of childhood mishaps and trauma and sadness and poverty. I am the nest I was born in, nothing more remains because I shifted it, I diluted it, I strained it, and I tossed it out. Where it goes does not concern me, that rag of personality that gave me hope. I need not hope. I need despair, and pearly white teeth to suck on for they are coated in sugar, and pork belly gelatin to get drunk on the rush of a life I hoped was worth living.