There is no question of who you are to me. You limbs and tour body eclipse into me like a memory or a thought. Thank you for existing. Thank you for being that human who glares at my eyes like they are diamonds, who looks at me with love(more) beyond words.
I didn't used to believe in love. Despite my current protestations, that much is true. One body and another never joined together in my mind. One heart and another never melted into one as as the fears inside us melted out in twos.
But now, now I see things differently. I see your handsome face and your crimson beard as the love of my life, my best friend and my sanctuary. But how does one reckon that with their real selves?
How does one take their heart and fold it in two, rip little pieces off until the size fits your quota? All I ever knew of love was ugly. There was missing hands and wild hearts and nothing ever that belonged to me, me, ME.
It all was up for grabs. A thing beyond love and beyond ownership, a stupid 26 year-old who longed to just be "single". Congratulations, you've gotten your wish.
But is it all you have dreamed of? Are you the man you wished you be? As you fuck some stinger's pussy do you think about how hap[py you are to be safe from me, adrift from any kind of responsibility and emotion? I hope your dick gets soft and as you try to fuck her your whole being gets called into question. I hope you hurt and you cry and you feel like less then garbage. Because that is what you are. You broke my heart and now, I'd *love* to see you rot. (less)
John is passing insignificant beneath the monstrous weight and scale of the overpass.
His arms beyond the short sleeves feel the cool breeze of the sorbet pink dusk.
(more) The city and history and the rest of mortality are stretching before and behind him and laying down beside his path.
Tiny in the landscape, John is walking the soil of his testament. Treading dust in a land of fantasy.
Prophet of his own greatness.
His philosophy would be born immaculate and work miracles on the lonely and lost and forgotten.
Ambling over daydreams, on cracking streets he is walking half awake upon, fragments are tessellating into the "Be OK" the B-O-K.
John is seeking out the secret hiding places of the broken pieces. Looking out for the truth that lay there with the broken bottles and discarded scratch tickets and muddied pennies. He has faith. It will Be OK.
Prophet of a new meta-story. Bringer of a new arc.
John is the hunter and he is tracking down the clues he knows are tucked between every prime numbered frame.
John is past the bus stop and electric vehicle sales warehouse. He is turning to his right and taking off down a broad alley where he is new and fresh between rusty smoke stained walls.
"There's the Be OK" John is saying to himself every single time when he is looking on factory walls.
He is rolling out of bed now and he's looking back at the dream he's had had since he first passed insignificant beneath the weight of the distant overpass.
An angel is bringing him a message and walking beside him. John is walking beside his angel and together they are pointing at the edges of the puzzle which one day will assemble into the testament of be OK.
"His dedication was a testament to his work eithic....."
The director rambled on at the top of the room. He had been going solid now for a good fifteen minutes, all Richard wanted was a quiet retirement, to slip away one Friday evening and just not turn up the(more) following, or any subsequent Monday. But no. That is not how they did it in The Company. The voice of the director had faded into a dull hum. Richard just wanted to be in his local pub sipping a pint. If what the director was saying about him couldn't hold his own interest, then how did he expect the rest of the department to remain alert or even awake? Richard cringed at the thought. He didn't even know how the director had gleaned so much information about him, but realistically, so little about it was truly about him. As with many retirement speeches he had sat through in his day, they were mainly about The Company, a ploy to get everyone together in once place in order to spout propaganda at them. Propaganda over, then it was on to the cheap bubbly for a toast and on to the business of getting drunk on free Company supplied wine. Richard didn't even like wine, especially not the plonk The Company bought in for events like this. He had been there for near on fifty five years now, and his mode of operating was to work hard, but not too hard and to remain under the radar at all times. Now, sitting on the stage beside the director, in his stiff suit, he felt decidedly uncomfortable. The crowd rose and erupted into relieved clapping as the director stood down from the podium, crossed the stage and stood to shake Richard's hand.(less)
Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the floor. Cracked, spilling frothy brown liquid amongst the shards of sharp glass. A few drunkards still stumble among the ruins, though the party was over hours ago, their skin ripped and bleeding in odd places, on the palms of their hands, the soles(more) of their feet, their knees, some bleed from their heads, even. Some don't bleed at all, just lay there, staring sightlessly at the dark ceiling.
Party, I said. More like brawl.
It started innocently enough. They always do. A group of friends, alcohol, a pleasant summers night. Somehow it turned into....this.
I turn aside, trying desperately not to show that I'm about to retch. It would not do my blue uniform proud to vomit at the first sign of violence, and I've only worn it for a week. How did a rookie cop end up on *this* job anyway?
My superior signals me to start making arrests. The drunkards are terrifying, but I must be a cop. No. I AM a cop. This is what I joined the force for. Better I clean up this mess than an innocent, a child stumble into it.
I pull a set of handcuffs off my belt, begin walking forward.
"Not quite, Rookie!" a voice calls. I look over at my superior, who is holding out thick gloves and a hessian sack. She gives me a kindly smile, the type with that rough cop edge to it.
"Clean up the larger shards, keep an eye out for approaching drunks but don't engage them. We're waiting for back up, but we can at least make this place a little easier to deal with."
I take the equipment, somewhat relieved. Those drunkards must be brought to justice. For now, I have ninety-nine broken bottles to clean up.(less)
you scraped aside sinews,
pulled together a pattering pulse
in hopes of habitation behind the sternum, you thought
you could love and be made whole.
(more) once you saw them smile and
you could feel your heart beat like
blinking, like waking up with sleep in your eyes
like breathing again, like out-of-hibernation.
you tightened your stomach and
scraped your throat dry
and made a nest out of thoughts and
hoped your heart would swell in it.
but blood is not stagnant enough
to nourish, not when it rushes to the head
(and rings eyes red).
the nest in your chest is starting to rot.(less)
The wall clock chimes 7.
He's in the process of getting dressed quietly, doing his best to maintain the silence. The only sound in the room is the shuffling of his shirt and the rhythmic sound of even breathing coming from the woman on the bed.
She stirs, a(more)nd reaches her hand along the cool bedside he shared a few moments before. The lack of warmth wakes her up to see him standing now almost fully dressed.
'Hey, good morning.' She says squinting through a smile as she props herself up on her left elbow. Strawberry blonde hair collecting up off the pillow and spilling over her bare freckled shoulder.
'Hi' he replies without looking her in the face.
'You're leaving so soon? It's only 7'
'I know, I'd love to stay,' he lies the same way he does every Thursday morning, 'but she'll be up soon and I should be there. You know how it is.' He finished the Windsor of his time and adjusts his wedding ring casually.
The fair skinned girl rolls onto her back and sweeps her hands along the bed. 'You're a liar,' she says casually with a smile in. 'You always apologize but it isn't worth shit is it?'
He stops in the doorway of the bedroom and without turning to face her.
'I guess not.'
Neither one of them say anything more. He leaves the apartment, she stays in the bed looking at the wall clock.
I am not heartless, just shy,
socially inept and awkward,
afraid and walled in,
heart thudding out of my chest
a rabbit, a coward,
(more) an introvert envying the extrovert,
so I say nothing
and feel everything.
It's not my heart that is missing,
it is my tongue.