the fast paced logos
a renamed focal
point of morals.
breathing fire in the chest
(more) of Mortals.
Forgo the corals, the pinch-dust, and laurels.
Instead, be the scene of tortures
moving faster through horrors.
Immoral gasps and tasked poachers
climb the lateral balance of decloaked hoarders.
An Aural belief set free by Oral Motives
in the Brown Book of promise.
Sing to me the sonnets;
an Arias worst confidence. A cosmos
bound up by the mist
The first drink she sips in the company of friends. This drink chips away at the plaque that has collected from her daily grind. The pressure of work, the bills, the light that has started to flicker in her kitchen, the click in her jaw when she chews her gum:(more) all have helped build this enclosure for her being. She is fun! She is exciting! She could have an easy smile and laugh at the simple joys in life, but not when her life seemed to give her endless problems.
The second drink brings her to the present. Life is happening and is being fed to her by this wonderful golden drink. It flows and it flows until the present sits you down on your ass on the stool at the end of the bar.
She is no longer herself. The alcohol has led her down a path that has left her head spinning in on the workings of the world; as if she had just fallen into the maintenance room of the cosmos.
The bar and her friends are not what she sees. She sees the night sky and begins to understand the world. The lonely, lonely world where she has a flickering light in her kitchen that she must repair. The realization is a new burden, but one she embraces. “You, you and you have flickering lights! The world is alone too.” Nobody will ever know how truly alone they are in the universe until their head is spinning after a countless number of alcoholic beverages. (less)
Cosmos. I’m floating in fucking cosmos. It’s not fucking okay. I hate waking up like this. I’d like at least one of my feet to touch something solid, at the bare minimum. Plus, ouch. The hangover is not making things better. Is that Jupiter?
(more) Come on guys, you didn’t have to go that far. It was only like ten shots of Tequila. I even paid for the first rounds, like the bro I am. Guys, come on. Take me down. Now.
Guys, did you really have to go there? Did you really? I mean, for fuck’s sake. Cosmos is like outer space. And outer space is, like, not okay. Putting blacked-out bros out there is going too far. Like way, way too far. The stars are giving me a headache. I need an aspirin, or like five hundred. Guys, take me down. Come on guys.
Behind the manicured beard, he was still the goofy kid she had rollerblade-limboed under a clothesline with when they were younger. Along the way, everyone thought they had lost him to the folds of failure and teenage angst.
(more) But he watched documentaries and had a job now. He drove with caution. And yet, he still put them at ease instantly in that uncanny way, with himself on guard. The universe was not such a big, unfathomable place.
It is that time of day. For me I notice the feeling about 5pm, when I'm fresh on the clock with 7-Eleven coffee bilious in my throat. I notice it most on muggy, grey days, days that signal a change in weather after two weeks of sun. Nothing days.(more) It feels like nothing is worth anything. Nothing is worth the effort, nothing matters: everything we see and do as paramedics is just something trivial, some dusty tragedy being remembered years from now. Watery blood-on-blood, overlaid on the gritty toll of being.
We roll through streets insubstantial as sighs, pointless streets without hard borders of reality. My eyes are heavy and fat. I fight to stay awake, keep the ambulance pointed between the lines as we scream toward a yet-to-be-realized heartbreak. Not mine. I just partake in bloodshed, a casual drinker.
After a week or two of days brittle as glass comes the start of a rainy spell, inevitable like this one. When I am already exhausted upon waking and it requires a conscious effort to put one foot in front of another to get out the door. A grey and soft day. The light silver and hurtful to the eyes, with a quality of a hangover or dreaming.
"Breathe...breathe," I am asking. I pump so my arms ache but really it is just me asking: Do you want to live? Because I understand if the answer is no. You don't even have to say it. The whole world breathes the answer for you; relinquishment shudders at the very edges of vision, comforting and easy. Oxygen itself tastes of graveyards.
You see people's flaws clearly on days like this. Their drug sores, the tattoos not looking so brave but instead like dirt that won't wash off, pain raw in their(less)