Thursday, March 18, 2010
So, enough about real life, yes? Let's get back to humorous crazy people, shall we?
Though my thoughts of you are antediluvian, I cannot suppress them when they jump out at me unexpectedly each time my mind wanders to the edge of the void that separates my reality from my senses. That great black depth that no bridge can remain suspended above because it gets sucked down into the abyss, nailed to the darkness by the memory of carnal hands and capricious words.
You carved the eyes from my obedience, then led it around like a kicked dog on a short chain. I think I love you a little bit for that.
Do it again.
The sun’s hot breath beats down on my neck, cooking my skin until it’s the color of your anger. My bruises were always the prettiest shade of plum and indigo, laced with traces of buttercup at the edges. You were always such a good artist and knew what color palette worked best to bring out the life in my flesh.
I close my book and look around for you, wondering why I come in search of you in rare intervals. You always pass by as though I’m any other stranger beneath the tree, your martial eyes flicking over me dismissively when you bother to turn your head. This time, I don’t mind so much. Had you deviated at all from how I anticipated you to, it might have been foredoom that the unexpected shadowed you still.
As it always has, and today is no different. Only this time I know what is to come, so the surprise is yours alone. And perhaps any passerby that is unfortunate enough to be caught in the blast. You love that shiny car of yours so damned much, I figured you could take it with you to Hell.
Over my shoulder I sling my bag, tucking the words of Poe between the folds of canvas. As I rise to my feet and kick the loose grass from my shoes, I hear the screams of the people who don’t find the fire as beautiful as I do. Regretfully, I realize marshmallows would have been real handy right about now, but I think it might be some sort of social faux pas to roast them over the burning corpse of what was once something that pretended to be a man.
I do so try to remember these little quirks of society. It’s a bother most days.