The lights stretch back for miles, hollow stares all trained toward the twisted, shattered steel, waved on in pairs and threes like visitation lines at ******'s speed, slow enough for a glimpse, high enough for everyone to get a turn. The night turns every shade of paint black, each window to a tinted mourner's veil, glass shards strewn by an uncaring hand to scintillate like starlight in the glare, sirens wailing away like the bereaved.
All we want to hear about is love and Madness, wounds left in the mind Where what's taken for granted Was ripped out and scattered, just ash. Maybe just madness, then. Addicts Left shaking their cupped hands Trembling out aching, quaking desire Where stillness arrives with a kiss, Where confession pours crimson, A ****** of claret. Spilled into a glass, Sloshed across a tongue, breathing Bitter, barren, dry - washed down With another glass, until the flavor stains Teeth and tongue and lips. We are What we drink: water and blood. We are what we love: madness, confession. Does a ****** see in their subjects The viscid revel of their own scars?
He tried to remember what they looked like as he saw Where her nails had sunken deep into the comforter And where his sweat had flattened the sheets. And felt ***** just for looking, Afraid that their memories could see him in the empty room.
How ******* dare they Indulge in each other when all it becomes Is a mess for someone else to notice? Selfish, entitled, lucky *******.
And he was ashamed Because he was happy that he noticed what they did And because he felt like he was there. Something so **** about imaginary inclusion. Is that what they wanted?
Changing the bedding felt like desecration, Like tearing down the set of a Broadway play. The show was for him, The show was for the other, Who taught them how to act?
It hurts to think About their hollow bodies Mashing together. They’re fake-*** moans that the other customers probably complained about to their silent spouses.
It hurts to think That they whispered the moment away In their insecurities and in-the-moment-living. Jesus, all for nothing.
And he started to cry, Thinking about the heat that filled the room. Letting his heaves mirror their motion, and Then left, Their passion still damp.
And I laughed… Nobody laughed back I was laughing alone There were eyes on me I could feel a lot of eyes on me Feeling me up Lingering on parts of me Some parts more than the others The eyes soon got bored Lost interest in me and my parts They switched their attention back to the customary dullness However, every time a new pair of eyes set sight on me, it lingered for a while But they soon joined the rest Eyes, many eyes, lots of 'em I saw them looking I sensed them looking They wanted reason They wanted a story They wanted to see more than a happy face It would cheer them up Helped flush the blandness in? They dug it out of my laughing face while I was still alive I didn’t have a reason now But they didn’t care They made it up Each pair saw a different story Some were similar, others distinct Some saw varying proportions of tragedy and insanity, while others saw total madness Some shared their imagination while others kept it to themselves Eyes, I wondered, were funny little organs They compelled the mighty brain to think about what they saw, every time they saw, and they never stopped seeing.
Words of a portrait - A portrait of a laughing Rajput king hanging on a museum wall examines the visitors