It's loud.
Violet, Blue, and Green lights
scatter across the floor,
across a canvas of house music,
echoing back into itself.
She crawls towards me,
wearing only poorly inked tattoos
and the lights that kiss us all.
I touch myself,
wishing it was her.
- I leave the room,
the music fading away,
like retreating from
sound-carrying-birds -
The smoke that comes from the cigarette
forms a skeletal web, reaching for the moon.
With rain slapping the dark brick walls,
hugging and creating an alley reminiscent
of a salivating, crooked-cement mouth,
I stand drenched in silver forgotten.
I drop the cigarette in a petrol-colored puddle,
watching it sink, become hard to distinguish,
and fade away.
- I reenter the room,
the song has changed
and is more mechanical. -
It's loud.
The lights are now
Bubblegum, Aqua, and Tangerine.
She lays supine, watching dollars
drift down, slowly, almost frozen.
Then the splitting of the air.
Fat-Man's body does a half-spin
as I lodge a bullet into his obese shoulder.
The music still blares, almost meaning more, now.
Regrouping himself, Fat-Man is weaponized,
drawing a greasy, inky blaster, desperate to spit.
A supernova erupts and quickly disappears--
like the aftermath of blowing birthday candles--
as his black speckled, crewcut scalp peels back,
letting fragments of chalky skull and pink penne
***** out of his square, boxed head.
Blood appears black under these lights
and instantly whips across
Samantha's still supine body.
The remaining people in the room
scatter like light exposed roaches.
Haunted, she is a toppled statue.
My steps move with the rhythm of the song.
Fat-Man's leather jacket
holds more meat than some mouths.
I plant my hand inside all pockets, find $6,480
in greasy, bloodier-than-usual presidents,
and move towards her, with the music.
Crouching beside her, I wipe the blood.
I clean her pale, tense torso
and help her up.
On two painted feet, she looks detached.
Silence exists, now, despite the music,
while she studies me with the same brown eyes.
Her lips quiver, she remembers
and wraps me with much thinner arms
that used to exist in nothing but memory.
Apr 20, 2016
Apr 20, 2016 at 6:51 PM UTC
It's loud.
Violet, Blue, and Green lights
scatter across the floor,
across a canvas of house music,
echoing back into itself.
She crawls towards me,
wearing only poorly inked tattoos
and the lights that kiss us all.
I touch myself,
wishing it was her.
- I leave the room,
the music fading away,
like retreating from
sound-carrying-birds -
The smoke that comes from the cigarette
forms a skeletal web, reaching for the moon.
With rain slapping the dark brick walls,
hugging and creating an alley reminiscent
of a salivating, crooked-cement mouth,
I stand drenched in silver forgotten.
I drop the cigarette in a petrol-colored puddle,
watching it sink, become hard to distinguish,
and fade away.
- I reenter the room,
the song has changed
and is more mechanical. -
It's loud.
The lights are now
Bubblegum, Aqua, and Tangerine.
She lays supine, watching dollars
drift down, slowly, almost frozen.
Then the splitting of the air.
Fat-Man's body does a half-spin
as I lodge a bullet into his obese shoulder.
The music still blares, almost meaning more, now.
Regrouping himself, Fat-Man is weaponized,
drawing a greasy, inky blaster, desperate to spit.
A supernova erupts and quickly disappears--
like the aftermath of blowing birthday candles--
as his black speckled, crewcut scalp peels back,
letting fragments of chalky skull and pink penne
***** out of his square, boxed head.
Blood appears black under these lights
and instantly whips across
Samantha's still supine body.
The remaining people in the room
scatter like light exposed roaches.
Haunted, she is a toppled statue.
My steps move with the rhythm of the song.
Fat-Man's leather jacket
holds more meat than some mouths.
I plant my hand inside all pockets, find $6,480
in greasy, bloodier-than-usual presidents,
and move towards her, with the music.
Crouching beside her, I wipe the blood.
I clean her pale, tense torso
and help her up.
On two painted feet, she looks detached.
Silence exists, now, despite the music,
while she studies me with the same brown eyes.
Her lips quiver, she remembers
and wraps me with much thinner arms
that used to exist in nothing but memory.
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