Here I sit, a bastard son of continent A and continent E, nihilistic in attempt to write away the effects of another full moon. In another time I may have been a lunatic; been burned for witchcraft. Perhaps the frayed edges of my mood will serve some electronic sacrifice to the great god of the Far Queue.
I could sit here and lie; I could lie here and cry, howl and gnash my teeth while hair grew in my veins and my fangs grew inward.
I don’t wish to dine on human flesh; I don’t care for all that mess; this half-baked lens this silver disk; magnifying magnetising iron filings in my bloodstream.
There is no content; no fulfilment, no resting blanket for this circling dog; big city fixed on a small-town leash. The fleas flee bloodless my shaking head, the water from the cold tap gleams like mercury, burns like electrolyte on my tongue, the alcohol hits my head like a wave of occluded thought.
This midnight special comes to you direct – I will not edit my growls nor airbrush my coat. Behind my eyes there sits a cold mind tonight, hardened by fatigue perhaps, teetering on the edge of self-pity for sure, even my old companion anger can find no purchase here where the edges are slick; a capacitor gap between the soul and the mind.
There will be no dreams for discontented dogs tonight – the silver hole in the velveteen sky will suck all slumber dry, her tidal duty done in spades from dusted surface to waters edge where hearts will not comply to diamond edged logic nor be clubbed to death by warm sentiment.
I could sit here and lie; I could lie here and cry, howl and gnash my teeth while hair grew in my veins and my fangs grew inward.
I don’t wish to dine on human flesh; I don’t care for all that mess; this half-baked lens this silver disk; magnifying magnetising iron filings in my bloodstream.
There is no content; no fulfilment, no resting blanket for this circling dog; big city fixed on a small-town leash. The fleas flee bloodless my shaking head, the water from the cold tap gleams like mercury, burns like electrolyte on my tongue, the alcohol hits my head like a wave of occluded thought.
This midnight special comes to you direct – I will not edit my growls nor airbrush my coat. Behind my eyes there sits a cold mind tonight, hardened by fatigue perhaps, teetering on the edge of self-pity for sure, even my old companion anger can find no purchase here where the edges are slick; a capacitor gap between the soul and the mind.
There will be no dreams for discontented dogs tonight – the silver hole in the velveteen sky will suck all slumber dry, her tidal duty done in spades from dusted surface to waters edge where hearts will not comply to diamond edged logic nor be clubbed to death by warm sentiment.
1 comment:
It seems the full moon always brings its own weight. Fustration, to much and never enough. Some things just come rushing in and thats it. It hurts.
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