Forgive me Lord, for I have sinned
Forgive me Lord, I'm made of skin
Forgive me Lord, the time has come
Forgive me, for I will **** a son
And the horses and daughters that follow his tail
All will be vanquished under the hail
No galley or chariot will save their lives
I have laid ink on their tanned hides
Now I await my hour of hate
Where all the world will cave in debate
Yet, no one will notice a questioning cry
Asking why he must choose who should die
Forgive me Lord, the duty is done
Forgive me Lord, my one tender gun
You will allow me to rise to the call
Lest I be buried under mankind's shawl
It's good to leave yourself looking unfinished. It gives off a sense of urgency to most common people. That way, no one will bother you and everyone will be awed by you.
My shadow is as authentic as my flesh. Under the deep cover of the day, it comes out to play, mimicking me in such a ragged manner. At times, it is ahead of me, as if its automation is one premeditated dance. Other times, I feel as if it has given me the reigns, through no request of my own. It is so faithful to my identity that it may as well be independent. Why shouldn't it be? Detractors would call me foolhardy with my whims. They would say, "Oh, but where does it go at night? Little child, where has your friend gone?"
What villains these people are. Of course, the shadow must rest from the pains of this earth; from the sight of mongrels like them. Every shadow has the right to fear the aged and the gnarled; their eyes domineering over every present pebble beneath their feet. It is as if they spit on their homes. I would burn the world twice over to protect my shadow. His own realm must be something of a sanctuary, or a holy womb. It ought to be my duty to protect the last vestiges of nascent, naïve innocence.
Mother, I hope that finally caught your attention. I know you are busy, so I will make the upcoming statement as brief as possible. If you cannot be bothered to understand an ounce of wit, and I know you will not, then it should be my duty to make this very transparent. Forgive the plainness of my speech. It is, after all, the most you can handle. This must be quite the task for the likes of you. Make of this what you can:
I'd like to insert a bullet into my head, upon yours and father's bed.
I would like both of you to see it, I would enjoy your aural dread.
In life, we all need a kick every now and then, I find.
A man is lying sideways on a bed, his shoulder softly suffocating a pillow. He is confronted by the image of a lone G.I. at the mouth of the Mekong Delta, flanked by a Dutch colonel woman, pensively staring on. The man is now pointing his gun at the pillow, his aim obstructed by his own head. He is currently in matrimony with the dreams of yesterday, yet not as much so with his extremities.
"I wouldn't let it die if I were you," croons a voice from the impossible background, seeming to leap over the hurdles of inner commotion.
"Who's that? Whatever could you be?"
As forward as he was in his tone, he couldn't resist the dominated position he was in. Even less resistible was the pulling motion of the tunnel behind him. He is now falling back into the sun.
Within the daily treads of modern traversal, there is nothing quite as soul-crushing as the escalator; its narrow scope and design, its unknowingly malevolent operation. It is such a cruel wonder it performs, consigning all existence upon it to one premeditated and mandatory path. It is the string drone of the modern orchestra; the hushed machination, a persistent contender in the cacophony.
An excerpt from the series, "Modern Exaggerations".
A chalky, sepia-washed room seen through an ailing CRT. Vantablack lines sprawl across my gnarled face in patterns, playing games with the sun that blares on through the rangy blinds.
Digital clock: 2:43
A cardinal red cigarette pack in my right hand, a turkey baster in the other, submerged deep within the sheet's motherly void. The simmering glow of the hallway dances like a pendulum; a vicious debutante, waiting to coerce me into life. I am enveloped by some capricious rhythm that has no origin, and no destination.
I'm coming to uncertain terms with this lucid halcyon.
Ink drips, from the pillow to my shoulder. I am currently a piece of fiction, held within a lissome frame. This is complete autonomy. Nothing is as it really was, only what it should've have been from the very start. A muted slur from beyond the window comes hurtling through my head. It starts to look like a tumor tree, having its branches, limbs, and spine torn to and fro in such a hideous manner. I've let something go to my head. The dream is broken, through no request of my own.