voices
whispering voices
like water
find even
the smallest cracks
in the silence
but did you see
the small men
tally the sins of
their fellow men
in the comfort
of a false eternity
carrying
that lewd weight
of a ledger of
trivial transgressions
but the ephemeral voices
of young lonely faces
bear no comfort
of no eternity
just that
forgetful awful past
I sleep with words, and wake up with them too. But each time with a
little less. A little less each time until silence sets in. But
then, suddenly, silence turns into sadness in a tacky, kitschy, sleazy
way before I start screaming “May time wilt your sadness into an
orgiastic version of a tetchy teenage drama,” before I turn myself to
sleep, before falling into a crazy Lynch-esque dream with its horribly
callous script, before my loud moaning slips sadly completing a full
circle.
Better part my late childhood, deep into my thirties, were spent
writing letters to myself in drunken stupors. Groaning takes practice,
you know. I am a telemachian late bloomer, whatcha-gonna-do?
The one, the one that got away, isn’t here. That’s not the sad part,
not by a long shot. The sad part is that I don’t give a shit about
pretty much anything anymore. The disappointed child in my head is
singing “I was locked in you your heart-shaped box” in a desolate room
all by himself, adding a “once” at the end which wasn’t there
originally. That child with his cargo-pants and Rage Against The
Machine t-shirt punches away some pixilated words at the keyboard,
carrying his frown like a god-damn-war-scar of some significance.
Some dream you had child. That an old bitter man dreamed that you
wrote everything here in a dazed semi-conscious half-sleep. Some
dream.
lives of mine
whether it is now, or
decades ago
all those different
versions of mine
live side by side
crowding the same
frame
soul
whatever…
is there a single word
(if exists it must be in german)
that explains the existential angst
of collapsing inwards
(much like a neutron star)
as the world around oneself
turns into
an oppressive prison
of body and mind
evening falls in but i feel nothin’
then the terrible weight
of all the empty beds
all the way to the distant past
punches me in the groin
hard, i mean real hard
but i feel nothin’
then i remember driving
between two midwest towns
on a hot summer day
in a shitty car
windows down
some road song playing on a
radio station about to disappear
but i still feel nothin’
somebody waiting on the other end
yet i feel nothin’, nothin’ man
then i remember
the wrenching loneliness
of commuting in a town where
no one understands
the words i collected
in two and half languages
in forty some odd years
yet i still feel nothin’
but try to fill an empty soul
all the same
with memories
that feel like graffiti on
abandoned warehouse walls
running along a midwestern highway
all the nothingness
that come from the nothing
returns to the nothing
all the same
feeling nothin’
nothin’ at all
i am
but hardly
a fluke
an iteration in
an exhaustive
brute-force search
of the universe
one
in countless many others
insignificant
noise
what if we all are
nothing but vehicles
transmitting a piece of genetic code
from one generation to the next?
all that we learn
all those we love
all we see and hear
lasting only a brief lifetime
only to disappear with no trace
except for those little fragments of memories
transmitted alongside
i sleep alone
i’ve always slept alone
even when there was someone
beside me
announcing their
unmistakeable presence
with a warm touch
of skin on skin
an involuntary flinch
or an occasional mumbling
Pieces of you lie in me.
I read today that
people we love become ghosts inside,
and live through us.
Ghosts in a machine.
The bones of your ghost in me
consist of images
of you, sounds, smells and
that undercurrent feeling
of everything is right with the world.
That it will be
even if it wasn’t.
Eventually…
i am talking without consequences
about myself without an audience
which leaves each word
without weight
without meaning
rendering them to pure noise
but time is a chain formed by
object of my own thought
one word at a time
like a rickety ladder going up
one step at a time
prone to a capricious collapse
under faintest hint of inspection
the time that belongs to
a universe born out of pure static
that would descend into pure noise
as dictated by
the law of increasing entropy:
“earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust”
rambling and rambling and rambling... 