|Once broken, considered sold
Author: tolerate PM
Joke's on us, let's go home.Rated: Fiction T - English - Poetry - Words: 492 - Reviews: 2 - Published: 01-09-13 - Status: Complete - id: 3090583
|A+ A- Full 3/4 1/2 Expand Tighten|
We burn ourselves like it's a habit.
It is in us, in the animals we are, under thin moving skins.
It is rhythm! It is thud! thud! thud!— it is restless limbs
in exaggerated slowness, and we like to live in simple motion,
so we burn. We simply, easily burn.
We burn, burn, burn!
We make the ocean drown with us,
let the fire burn itself; so that we don't need
We: becoming roads.
We become roads.
I am not one-way streets, I am not narrow hills.
I am not corridors of run-down apartments, the alleys that smell of sex
and sweat, or rusty abandoned pavements to high ends with no dents
on my jagged tipsy hips.
I am the footstep railway tracks to oceans. I am ghostly screeches in smoke.
We drive ourselves (choo—choo!) into the water
where we sink like we're made of sand.
Gaia is mother, and she is all.
We marry our blood-rush raving heads to her feet,
then deem our bodies puppets in distortion. Her vines are not strings
in a play where you laugh at a clown, they are collars to the necks we lack.
Your hobbies now include falling backwards
and ripping her vines to shreds.
Listen to us. Listen to us not speaking.
We will never speak again.
The same flood has drowned with us twice, the same holocaust has kissed us trice.
Waiters serve meat on plates like products in boxes, but this time, the plates are empty.
Now, we are on plates. Now, we are the meat.
Now, we are something in a place called somewhere, and we will be served cold,
and hot—and distasteful, and savoury—and tasteless, and full of salt—
and we are damned to nostalgia.
It is perfect prison. It is made for us.
We are abominations bathing in holy water. I am cityscapes sketched red
with pencils in black ink. Now you see. You see why I am what I am.
I am unholy musing in asylums where it's safe
to be (something).
There are pills in a crossroad, but you know that.
I was on the phone with you when I said I've buried them whole.
So we drink ourselves with pills, and it will be hatching hysteria inside—
it is personal gardener, it is yours to take. It burns away from toes
into the legs-spread in-betweens and oh God, I am done!
I am done.
I go to the counter to slam my fists and shout in her face,
"I want my refund!" in caps-lock fury.
We know how this works.
Especially with this.
"You can't get a refund for something that you broke."
Joke's on us. Let's go home.
I blink but it's daylight tonight and morrow,
and morrow, and morrow, and morrow.
It will never stop being tomorrow.
There's no more yesterday.