Eating feels like a necessary torture, and sleep feels like an unwanted evil. Stuck in the same cycle of waking up feeling disgusting, and not wanting to sleep because the longer I stay awake, the better I feel.
But even I can't stay awake forever.
But I try, God knows I try.
So I still live in these infected clothes in this infected house and I can't help but wonder where the hell my conscience went.
I feel weak every single day, and I can only hope that this week...
Can change everything.
So if I'm crying out to the TV watchers and the music citizens. To my best friends... some of which who won't even talk to me...
I can't wake up tomorrow thinking that this will not pass us by like the sickness it is.
But if somebody else is crying out, I will drop this sickness like a ton of bricks and run to wherever they are.
I won't feel sick if somebody needs me there.
So I can put a lock on the medicine cabinet. Not because I won't be able to pry myself away from it, but because I will believe with the entirety of my whole body that I don't need anything.
My family is made up of some of the strongest people on this planet.
I will not be an exception by any means.
So maybe I can wake up as a medical zombie, filled with my own drop dead weight.
I am tired.
But not tired enough.
Unlike the first wave of sick. This one cannot be cured by any amount of overdue sleep.
Why do you think I write into the abyss of every night?
Because there is nothing more for me to gain from saying that I am helpless.
Long divorced from love, owned three guitars and slept with nine women. Remembers every song, every poem, scarcely recalls their faces; lilt of their tongue as sleep took hold of them- not him.
Trigger finger over the snapshot through each baulk and ****** of passion: "this is the poem, this is the verse I can lay down in print and finally live again."
Night sky too full of uncertainty. Cannot observe a desert scene without a commentary on each unanswered question. She is dressed in sequins but what for the spaces in between? He cannot accept filler, blank spaces that intercede moments of ineffable beauty.
Maddening crowds emerge, bright-eyed and stupid to each early, pink noise morning. He awakes, drugged to the eyeballs, slow to movement; formulation of words.
Each night a battle of sobriety as the sun does bleed in the skyline before him. Each night a generation dies, subtle points of light lost in the noise of the modern day. Screams pointlessly, without need: "don't forget me, don't forget me..." would rather leave a scar
than no mark at all. Lives for the colours he cannot see, for the common thread that connects everything. Tweaks the string of each broken seam
to expose each diversity, each personal loss as a collective sigh; every sleepless night as an off-white lullaby. Born for collision beneath a dying star, long divorced from love; he is married to art.