See me now, So you can’t picture me later. Let the blue light move across my vinyl skin. Trace the slew of whispered pros down my spine, too soft to hear. Pull my hair until you tear out the pages that I won’t read you, Because I won’t read you.
I’m fine with watching the movie and never reading the book. Maybe skimming the first few pages, then leaving the rest to collect dust on the nightstand... Without so much as a bookmark.
For now, our legs on cotton sheets are moving on the screen. A flash of images refracts into our minds, only to be lost by next week. A predictable plot. No suspense of a next chapter. No rich velvet of ink on our eyes. They say the written word is dead, But I don’t know… maybe someday I’ll try to read something… But not tonight-
Click clack of train tracks. Space. Closing and creating. Space. Vision blurred by the translucency of my eyelids. Space. I proceed, Blind, clawing at the warmth of the air that caresses my skin Warmth that I want from elsewhere Your warmth... I must settle.
Anxiety builds. I see nothing, hear nothing, still I proceed, Blood pumping Lub dub I take a step Lub dub Another step Lub dub Hands still stretched, nothing. Silence. Space.
It’s coming. I feel it, the initial throatiness Converting to heat ****** heat, Pressing into beads of fluid that trickle down my cheek
My arms follow suit, then my legs, They become acquainted with the earth, seeking comfort in its stability and reveling in its tangibility
"I watched a snail crawl along the edge of a straight razor. That's my dream. It's my nightmare. Crawling, slithering, along the edge of a straight razor … and surviving." – Col. Kurtz, Apocalypse Now ~
Remember the golden age, Wally ***? And the songs my mother taught me?
We sang about what was. Or might never be.
Like permanency. Distinction comes out of stiff and frozen silences. Take it with a spoonful of disdain. Take it in the eye. Actors are like breakfast cereals. They're obvious and according to taste. I stopped needing them long ago.
Beautiful Tallulah. Beautiful, "less to this than meets the eye" Tallulah, dismiss me, that I may be free to find Tennessee.
Open windows and closing doors. Always a breeze, but never a way out. Right on cue the cards shuffle.
Butter and cotton *****, tricks of the trade. I mumble to be heard. I am legend to disciples of the Method.
I wear my friends to bed, burn them like newspaper. They call me "Bud" —cigarettes at dawn after devouring the night. And now my song ebbs, as the stylus hits the leadout groove.