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I am lost in the black forest. all full of white fir and coniferous pine. the needles carpeting the ground crunch beneath my toes and small twigs break under my feet. light filtering trough the trees illuminates my hair and turns my vision to white. the rustling in the background sort of sounds like wind chimes and distant voices.
I am in a coma. my physical body is in one place but my mind is lost. my wandering feet travel not on land but in a dreamscape; leaving behind no steps but instead tiny ripples that spread slowly into infinity.
itís march. there was ice on my windshield the morning before last but now the grass is green and the sun warms the earth to a nearly unbearable point. the carpet beneath my feet is soft against my callused feet and the wind rustles my hair so that it falls across my eyes. I donít know precisely where I am, but a meadow of tiny flowers sprawls out before me and the treeline in the distance is bright and inviting. I take a step and then another but the trees never get closer. the grass stretches infinitely before and behind.
battery acid, stanzas one and two:
I touch the mirror where I saw your face,
but the glass and the picture melt away.
there's a residue left on my fingertips
and it burns like acid from a battery.
you're eroding my fingers, decaying my hands;
through the bones in my wrists and I. I. I can't --
[breathe] [god and it hurts and it hurts and it hurts]
there's blood in my lungs and I'm choking again.
there's holes in my heart in my heart and my skin.
[it hurts it hurts] [and it's over and over and over again]
hunter s thopmson once said; you can turn your back on a person, but never turn your back on a drug.
his broken glasses glittered in the low candle light, hiding his myopic pupils and broken stare. I sat with my back to the wall, waiting.
wait for it, just wait for it.
he stood and turned, looked to the wall and back to me, turned again. I didnít know what to make of it.
but this time was no different than any other. I caught his hand the first time, but after the initial shock he didnít care anymore.
collaborative effort; me, james:
fake fluorescent hospital light:
city lights are blinding white.
lights too bright to see the sky --
white walls, floors, and snow outside.
white like pearls on strings.
white like coffee against cream.
white like handfuls of pills.
white like powder on dollar bills.
days stop just to pass me by
the white, the white,
is it all in my mind?
the walls the walls,
is it all in my mind?
everything, nothing its all
white like pearls on strings.
white like coffee against cream.
white like handfuls of pills.
white like powder on dollar bills.
she stood against the cold tile wall of the station, clutching a cup of black coffee. the winter was just as harsh and unforgiving underground as it was on the surface. even the resident slime and filth of the place, the sentient condensation that seemed to ooze directly from the walls, was near frozen. it hung in icicles from the pipes overhead and lay still in pools on the ground. they glistened in the dying fluorescents, as if something on the inside was moving; trying to reach out to the moans of the tunnels, the whispers trapped inside the concrete.
less than a month has gone by and no longer do I feel like taking flight. I take back what I said earlier; Iím going to stick around and not much can make me leave, if anything. itís not because Iím afraid to leave, itís not because I have nowhere else to go, its not because I need money and support, itís not because Iím afraid of being alone; itís because I want to be here and be with him.
boy, I donít know precisely what youíve done but I know youíve done it right. you have me right now.
this hobby is quickly turning into a habit the more I turn into a liar and a thief. the money I steal buys me the expensive crescents that never cease to impress me no matter how many times I undress them and break them down.
Iíll soon have a problem on my hands. we canít both be like this. I steal for him and his sake, but the more I steal for myself the less I do for anyone. I will regress into my off-white coma once again and forget this place despite my residence here.
I have to stop.
the incandescent light was casting strange, flickering shadows and she turned her gaze to the inert coffee in her hands. the liquid shone black in the darkness of the place, immeasurably deep; an abyss punctuated by tiny stars made of artificial light. they shone like city lights on the horizon, like strings of jewels and pearls. the little flecks of light seemed to dance amongst themselves and she watched them intently. they formed constellations and patterns, fine lines and images. she blinked to clear the fantasy from her mind, but the tiny lights remained steadfast, painting a picture amongst themselves.
battery acid; one point one:
there's shattered glass in my fingertips
from your broken black frame glasses.
coffee drips off the old bedstand
and eats through the floor like acid.
oh it's slowly coming back to me,
the days the nights the inbetween -- [but]
these wormwood holes inside my brain
are always getting in the way.
we lived in a house of twigs and sticks,
three rooms wood floors no windows.
decay and rot, a black linen bed --
pills spilled on the dining room table.
we walked on water,
danced in sheets,
and lived as we were able.
I used to live here.
the air is sort of stale. the house is empty and something is missing. it no longer smells like me or my clothing. my room contains meaningless belongings and somehow all of it makes me want to cry. itís as though Iíve left everything behind even though Iíve left nothing and lost nothing.
but I have lost something. Iíve lost my welcome in the house I used to call a home. nobody greets me or opens the door. itís silent and I shiver though it isnít cold at all. the dust keeps on getting ticker.
the coffee had grown as cold as the stale air; the ceramic cup clung frozen to her fingers as her gaze was frozen upon the tiny universe in her hands.
and then for a moment she was in it.
it was all bubbles and lights and distant horizons. jewels, pearls, mirrors, smoke; paper stars hanging on strings, powerlines strung across buildings, broken yellow streetlights, tiny white embers; cypress swamps and black coffee and cream. it stretched on forever, as far as one could see, into infinity or oblivion, whichever came first.
as suddenly as it had come, the picture vanished.
word of the day; tantric:
these tantric thought processes
my absentee psyche possesses --
they allow me to obsess
over trite and trivial things,
into that -
sinking feeling. -
-- and regress
into nothing, nothing at all.
and melt slowly
into the walls from whence I came.
or perhaps melt into the
sea of floors that call my name --
beg me to join them again
in my existentialist ventures
with lascivious voyeurs,
peering [like vultures] through cracks
at my junkie friends.
sometimes I don't realize
that I am not a vulture;
that I am a voyeur-ee.
battery acid two; stanzas one, two, half of four:
this acid melts off my hands again
it's eating my face cause it's inside my skin
it drips down my throat and god I can't breathe
it got in my blood and dissolved all my veins
it melted through the roof of my mouth
but tasted like candy all the while
candy so sweet it burns like lye
[candy so sweet it hurts me inside]
candy like acid that melts me away
residual blow etched forever in place
battery acid inside my veins
black coffee dreams make it all fade away
a gust of wind flew through the tunnel and a train rushed by on the tracks; grinding and screeching to a halt, the third rail throwing sparks into the air. the cars filed by, one by one, until they finally stopped; the doors stretching into infinity slid open in unison. she stepped into the gaping mouth before her. the jaw hissed shut, and with tremendous effort, the train lurched forward. the start made the coffee jump from her cup into a small puddle at her feet. the liquid ate through the metal floor and dripped on to the rails below.
itís never if; itís always when. you'll always leave, Iíll never win.
I fall back asleep no matter how hard I fight it so my mind can pass the time how it chooses. I never used to dream but these days my head never stops reeling. itís always preoccupied with what it wishes I was doing. I wish it would stop but Iíve lost control of what I can wish for.
some people would call this blaming my problems on outside forces. I call this being a realist.
good thing I can type with my eyes closed: they wonít open.
drug addition is such a funny thing. sometimes I think he is and sometimes heís not at all. I canít make sense of it. sometimes heís fiending and sometimes he forgets. itís never been more than twenty four hours though, so I suppose it does qualify as a serious problem. not as serious as it could be, though. I never used to come first but suddenly now I do. I will never say; pick one, nor am I tempted to do so.
if I was told ďit or meĒ I would have to pick the one that will never leave.
today was my motherís birthday. I hadnít spoken to her for at least a month, but I couldnít refuse to got to dinner.
today marks my final estrangement from my family. she refused to finally treat me as a person, much less her own child. she wonít call me. all I wanted was for her to invite us over for dinner one day, and she absolutely refuses.
I canít figure out what she wants. she always wanted me to leave, and now that Iíve left itís as if sheíll never forgive me for doing so. Iíll never go back now.
they hammered off all of his toes and then all of his fingers and then all of his teeth. the monsters that lived beyond the end of the pavement covered his mouth and held it shut so he couldnít scream and choked on the blood that was pooling where his teeth used to be. they pressed the gun to his head, pulled the trigger; but he didnít die. he lay in the dirt and drank his own blood until it stopped flowing from his forehead.
I found him a day later before his eyes had been plucked from their sockets.
where the sidewalk ends is supposed to be a magical place for a child; a place where the world ends or thereís some sort of undiscovered, unattainable treasure.
when I was little, there was no sidewalk. the road simply terminated itself into a barren, dirt wasteland. beyond was nothing but barbwire fences and swampland. swamp from which monsters with indescribable faces rose and dragged themselves across the mire, creeping into the fields and underneath the dilapidated fences. across the barren dirt to the jagged precipice where the pavement terminated; to lie on the ground and reach upward for my hand.
I never reached to help them. they clawed and wailed at me from below and beyond, the feet and inches somehow stretching into an ever widening gap. soon enough they began to sprout legs and crawl on all fours to haunt me instead of lying on their faces.
I would turn to face an empty space where eyes should be; wake in the dark to their muted breathing beside my window as they desperately sought a way to melt through the glass or seep in through the walls.
they covered our mouths until we couldnít scream and then couldnít breathe.
thereís nothing like sex in the morning after a long night.
the sheets are already warm and your skin still tingles from the narcotics you took the day before; a holdover from all the grapefruit juice and beer and taking way too much. the hot breath on your neck is warmer than ever before and your head spins, not just from the rush but from the chemicals. even though you canít feel your toes, the feeing of the fingers on your skin is like electricity then itĎs inside you and there are no words, just warm skin and existential bliss.
I wake up in my room again
in a puddle of my drool again
the carpet leaves lines on my face
and I can't figure out where I am
[wait that's right I'm on my floor]
and I don't think I can get up
this is what I did last night
I stayed in here and turned off the light
had a handful of pills
burning holes in my pockets
and I guess I just couldn't wait
left a rolled up twenty on my desk
I know me and my clothes are a mess
sorry mom I'm on drugs again
more of the same:
don't think I'll go to school today
I'll just sit and waste my time away
cause I've got better things to do
I'm gonna write this song and sing along
with sonny moore on the radio
I got a cup of coffee here with me
gonna stare at it and try to see
it's got all the secrets hid in there
but it doesn't tell me anything
and it doesn't love me back
it doesn't love me back
oh I'm going going gone
oh so gone
I'm gone gone gone
and I think I like it
the paraffin morass across the floor
crawls to me, seeps between my toes,
catches at my ankles.
and I donít fight; I donít know why;
just let the clingy wax that seeps beneath the door
carry me into a rusted repose.
my fingers are stuck in some sort of ooze
and I watch it slowly creep up my hands
and coat my arms with transparent white.
its claws have already began to dig in.
my vision switches channels into horizontal bands;
a broken television scrolling through snowy skylines.
we were just outside of atlanta when it began to take hold.
a flight of icy stairs stood in front of her, leading to a world that was darker than the subway. the clouds blocked out the setting sun and cast the world a pale gray wasteland. smoke and steam curled up from the tops of buildings and grates set in the street. the buildings were made of brick and covered in dirt and grime. cables strung between the buildings haphazardly; some loose, others cut and frayed. they sprung up from the ground and disappeared into the brick. vines grew across them, shoes hung by their laces and rocks dangled from strings.
he's got sallow, paraffin skin;
ashen, off-white like dirty sidewalks
soot and grime stained, with oilslick puddles:
purple, blue, green -- contusions in peacock array.
proof he's zenlike enlightened.
the sidewalk talks, begs him to stay.
provisional reality flickers like a kerosene flame.
filth coats the bruised street --
the oil floats away in smoke-filled bubbles,
popping and spilling on cracked parquet floors.
the mirror splits his vision double.
he walks in an unnerving sort of way,
crawling as insects do: out of the gutter.
the secret has got him pinned down.
it escapes in the lilt of his words.
I'm no j. alfred prufrock, but instead a prophet --
I fail to waste my time --
sort of let it idly pass by
while I, like lazarus, come back from the dead,
only to die again and again.
eternity is on my side.
and I exist lavishly in this empty space,
filled with decadence and other attractive things.
I dare to be lazarus.
you should give me a gratuity
for my enlightening substance abuse;
my acceptance of my dependence
on the existence of
I may have just
his face was hidden under a mess of black hair. tiny crystals of ice sparkled in it like a halo. he was dressed in dirty fabric; stained, yellowed with age. his skin was pale and covered in bruises; black, brown, yellow, purple, green. he sat curled into himself, his knees to his chest, arms around his knees; slender, bony hands crossed. bracelets covered in mirrors and glass shone on one arm; on the other, an intricate design made of black lines. in it there were bubbles and stars and light bulbs, rows of tiny streetlights with powerlines strung between them.
he looked up with a blank stare. from beneath strands of black hair, his eyes shone a brilliant green set within black, blue, and purple bruises.
he spoke at no more than a whisper, and then it seemed as if he had never spoken at all. suddenly he was in front of her. the sky turned to television static, her cup of coffee fell from her hands to the concrete and shattered. the black fluid soaked through the cement and disappeared.
ďI am enlightenment, the poetic suds that soapbox crazies spill from their mouths. I am your black coffee fantasy.Ē
word of the day; ratchet.
about a boy who doesnít exist, like usual:
across the field of gray lies a concrete sea,
lotuses, pearls, white webs of string --
lashing him down to his provisional reality
with pins and rivets and ratchet teeth;
no matter how hard he pulls
it only tightens down --
with a vindictive sort of creeping,
the walls and floors beneath him crawl;
the blackness while he's sleeping sprawls
out across the empty plains
and fills them with pictures again.
he sings so as not to give himself away,
since only the troubled, the wounded scream.
The Tip Jar