It's emergence so brief and shattering,
you'd have to question it's existence.
Sucked from the swamp by the sky,
it is devoid of morality; it is the terror
that does not forgive what it hasn't
given permission to.
Abrupt hum of an Indian motorcycle,
streaking across the starving freeway,
leaving ribbons of red, in the long,
uncomfortably volcanic-black night.
The body on the machine is wrapped
in cheap, crimson leather, and topped
by a navy helmet, stamped by a
visor reflecting rushed stars.
Migraine-inducing headlights hit
it's prop-store-green body, as it
drips and steps towards a vintage
orange van. Through the videotape
windshield, it can see two still figures;
two figures with aviators and bandannas.
Road signs swing by; the air zipping
in and out of the helmet. The body,
effortlessly, weaves through and
past the few vehicles lost in the dark.
Decelerating, the Indian penetrates
an exit stained: 567-TX-155.
Inside the carpet lined cave,
the figures stare at the monster,
indifferent to it's existence -- well,
not entirely one reminds the other.
It's arms dance in front of it's eyes,
blinded by the freshly clicked
high-beams; unaware that they
are, slowly, stepping closer.
Approaching a skeletal forearm,
emulating a tree, the Indian gradually
becomes silent. The body walks it
behind the rooted elbow, laying it
on a web of wooded earth; pulling
up a sleeve, removing and resting
a watch on the hot, metallic carcass.
It removes it's scattering fingers,
green and twitching, from it's
shrub framed eyes. Looking
forward, two bottles of blackness
grow near. It is a miracle only
surpassed by the instability of
life, that I look upon you, one
bellows. Consider this not
personal, but a preemptive
admonishment. Simply: I
cannot allow you to live,
for I have heard what I
cannot understand. Please
know that I admire,
thus I destroy.
The leather-clad foot-claps
eat and spit the sleeping gravel.
Pace becomes quicker; frenzied,
even. Like a comet, exact in its
imprecision, the navy helmet
falls to the ground, capturing
a night-sky goodbye; casting
the moon, briefly, into her eye.
So brief you'd have to
question its existence.
It's body, pulpy and beet red,
lodges itself between their
pale, freckled fingers. They
consume, pause, then continue
to gnash on the foreign meat.
Yellow, like an ancient bone,
the moon curves and bends
with ever chomp. It can feel
it all. The insides, pulled and
wrapped around wrists; soon
yanking; soon gritty removal.
The light begins to blend
with the surrounding dark.
Last breath, ruined by the
brief choking it's flesh caused.
So brief you'd have to
question it's existence.
Sweat rips down from her
hair, onto her eyelids. A
dead sprint is broken into,
before she throws herself
into woods, avoiding the
approaching beams of a
seconds imitate the
vehicle and go by. She
lifts her eyes to the brim
of a bush; pupils sliding
Van tires make the transition
from gravel to asphalt, as the
two figures are now, indifferently,
drenched in a red-bronze, becoming
crust around their lips. The driver
says, My father told me about him --
that. He said, if given life, it would
learn to take it. You cannot change
the nature of a monster. If we
remove it, we remove death.
We control the consent.
Her heels transform her sprint
into a statue's posture. The rocks
hurt her knees, as her hands soon
follow, crashing to the ground.
Scattering fingers reach towards
her, soon met by her petite grasp.
The same fingers grow still.
She reaches towards her side,
cradling the nickle handle of
The Last Killer
looking behind her, anger and
a plan, running down her face.
December snow and college life
It's not easy to survive
Feel the snowflakes on my skin
The cold air I'm breathing in
It's so hard to pay the rent
Nothing but my time to spend
But as long as it's with you
There's nothing else I'd rather do
When I met you I was hooked
Not only by the way you looked
You got me totally obsessed
I love you only, I confessed
My heart beats for you
When you leave me, it's true
I'll never recover
From the loss of my lover
I'd give up my life
To be by your side
I once dreamed of Paris
But I only need you, wherever that is
So don't say you're sorry
For when you love truly
There's no need to apologize
For being the best thing in my life
49th minute out of Hour 3
It was like a scene out of a movie
starring you and me.
The start of something beautiful
but the beginning of the end.
I sometimes regret saying yes,
and other times I am glad for that day.
But mainly I just stress
about what will come of us.
As my life tends to go,
there is tragedy, there is sin.
But the thing that will keep us together
is my imagination and my pen.
In last night's movie, a young writer
and an older, married with children French woman
fall in love. They did not meet during a village massacre
and money is no object, Manhattan
the place I was priced out of. But after everything has happened
she cannot leave her children, not even for love, because of love,
the love that brooks no serendipity.
Here, in my family, love is taken for granted
except when it's withdrawn and then even the trees lose all meaning,
familiarity. Now it is almost dawn:
this and that must get done in committee or alone.
Don't reach, go slow as the day will allow.
But that's not what I came to say.
Perfect rest v. having a destiny.
A complete breakdown in self-discipline.
It begins by saying nothing I do matters under the eye of eternity.
Hamlet x 5 centuries.
Add to that all the science--chemistry, physics--calculus and music
I don't know. I have sat next to, at weddings,
brain surgeons and robot engineers. I hit the street
choosing a church on Fifth Ave. or Trinity Cemetery, walking the
In the subsequent late night movie, a wealthy
altruistic doctor arranges for the murder
of his neurotic concubine. His guilt provides us
with an opportunity to consider
the concepts of faith and forgiveness, that all will be well in the end
after a period of meaningless suffering.
In this way the seasons have been circulating for eons via convexity.
I don't know what I'm doing but I'm doing it anyway.
You trust in genetics, God, prosthetics or prayer, whatever
gets you to the morning. That's when the sun,
a billion trillion nuclear detonations per second
warms yr bones.
You may remember an old lover who's gone before
or continues to exist on another plane, in another ecstasy.
Having installed a new toilet seat
and made a few philanthropic donations
I can kick back tonight and watch movies, right?
Not. I'm ridding myself of another addiction
like illegal drugs via caloric restrictions
getting enough sleep for two people or more
and reading none of the dry words in books from the library.
When there's nothing to do, when I'm bored or dreary
I'll sit still and watch from the window, I'll wait
for the weather to change, which it will.
The steel inside my forearm
Has bent beneath the tremendous heat
Of the forest fire burning in me
How it roars and screams a passionate plea
Not of agony but of fury
Both in might and out of sight
With hands outstretched
Over top the sea of burning trees
And temperatures boiling over uproariously
You’ll hear the howl of this wolverine
As it drowns out the earthly screams
Of a forest fire
Insurmountable and unquenchable by any stream
I purchased a ticket to your matinée.
You sold me on the storyline.
Boy likes girl,
girl likes boy,
live happily ever after.
Everyone loves a happy ending.
Here I am, front row and center,
popcorn in hand;
clueless as to why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.
Nonetheless, here for you.
The curtain rises, it's your time to shine.
It's just like you said,
boy likes girl,
girl likes boy.
There are no two hearts more in unison,
though it seems something unsettles his mind.
Thoughts of her lying,
Thoughts of her cheating,
Thoughts of her leaving,
I am waiting.
Where is the happy ending?
I am here waiting to watch you love,
to watch you hold,
to watch you unite.
I throw popcorn at your deceit,
at your paranoia,
at your hysteria.
You ripped me off.
I now know why I am alone.
In this dark, cold, empty place,
I am alone.
He will be missed.
that's what they'll write on your Facebook
after they'll scatter your ashes
all over the big blue virtual ocean.
small pieces of your memory
will end up on people's profile pictures
(the full black ones
are small parts of your
Nick Cave t-shirt).
they'll suddenly remember
that you once existed and
that they had the honor
of not picking up YOUR phone calls.
they'll share all your favorite songs
on their side of the wall,
saying this and that
and how you inspired them
through your nonsense.
they'll hashtag your big fat ass
with that special #RIP bullshit,
knowing that you haven't
slept well in a while.
that's what they'll say
after a couple of months,
when they'll look at the empty places
in their bookcases
and realize that,
it wasn't a good idea to lend their books
to a depressed as fuck mother fucker.
they'll go online
and order new books
and try to forget your absence;
your song will be played again.
you'll be an echo one more time,
water under their bridge,
a white paint mark that they leave behind on the road,
on their way to the seaside,
a decent line
in a Romanian new wave movie
that makes them smile for a second
and then, after the screening's over, try to remember..
you had the choice of carving smiles into stone or
that of throwing stones into smiles.
what do you think people saw?
you don't have to live a great life.
you just have to die a simple death.