“I could really use a Wendy”
"Do You remember that scene in Peter Pan? The one where Wendy sews Peter's shadow back on?" I nod my head and light another smoke.
You're eyes are serious and you're stoned. You wrinkle your brow and for a moment you drift away. "What does that even mean? He loses his shadow?"
I'm smiling as you strike a match and light your Marlboro in quiet contemplation.
"Maybe it's Peter's connection to the real world, " I say, "to reality and to the Darlings and..."
You're moving closer to me and you allow your head to slump over and nestle into my neck.
(5 weeks and the letter came)
The note was cut and dry and speckled with unimpressive doodles and scribbled lines.
"It struck me late last night, " it read "that I could really use a Wendy. My shadows vanished. If I had to guess...the bastards in your dresser. "
Fall from Grace
I've fallen so far from grace
dim tunnels belch darkness
Upon the night.
Tree tops rustle. Somewhere
it's up or down
East or west.
A silent trek forged by the
drawn light of
The difference between diamonds and glass
I found a piece of glass in your cement eyes
weathered and smoothed, as if by winds and wear
A tiny particle of a soul that once existed.
thrived and lived freely among the stars
The sun was barely rising above Richmond. Cowering over the city, hanging mercilessly slow. Hovering as though it understood its place. As though it knew its part in it all. 16th street was silent. Horns honking in the distance. Somewhere far beyond the walls of The Jefferson a woman screamed, a child wailed as he was pulled from his peaceful slumber. The soldiers were ending their patrol. Silently wrapping up their nighthly sweep.
Inside room 262 a portly Englishman paced, back and forth, back and forth. Swaying slightly from side to side as he balanced himself against the wall and settled in. Three dark suited Gentleman sat around him. Staring forcefully, hopeful. “A Drink perhaps?” In perfect unison the dark suited gentlemen shook their heads. “This can’t be won.” He continues. “You, no doubt, have brought me here for my knowledge. But this cant be won sir.”
“I’ve fought wars my English Friend,” The superior suit rises from the sofa and walks closer to the drunken Englishman. “Dr Kyle, the times we are seeing.” He shakes his head. “they are the most desperate I have ever seen…WE have ever seen. But this is no war. The Priory sent you. They sent you because you know her. You’ve studied her. Somewhere inside you know how to stop this.” The Englishman laughs, a maniacal sort of sound against the quietness of the room.
Insert Witty Title Here
there were whispered secrets behind the sunbeams of your eyes...
It's somehow brighter in the room. The kitchen is cluttered with bottles turned ashtrays and half-empty cans of PBR. Scattered here and there are crushed cans of Pong beer and overturned bottles of Jack. There are two teenage girls crashed out in my living room, sent to protect me from myself...no doubt Cigarette ashes are littering my sofa and my recliner has seen better days. "But I'm breathing," I think.
I'm lighting a Camel Crush and pouring a shot of tequila. It's 8 a.m and friends are dropping in to borrow a little black dress. For a funeral, maybe? But i really can't say.
I've not really been myself since you left. Kind of tossed about from here to there. I toss the shot and take a draw. The shaking in my hands stop and the fog in my head clears.
"I don't have anyone to answer to now..." I start my morning pep talk. "I don't have to be held back anymore..." It always ends the same. Fuck it, i say and throw back another shot.
I don't even like tequila, i note, half-heartedly, to myself. There's bacon frying in a half cleaned pan and my coffee is brewing. I pour a glass of Peach Wine as i wait.
i kissed your lips and whispered to your soul
of dooms and dragons deep
of seashores; long forgotten lores
times before time stood tall
of quiet trails of darkened doors
that fade now into light.
I kissed your lips and welcomed your soul
to deaths sweet tribal home
I have no idea what day it is...
it is like the days have all folded together. maybe the confusion comes from the Woodford in my hand. maybe it doesn't. maybe I have truly finally lost my mind.
I'm chasing Bourbon with cheap beer. even in the Mason Jar, the aluminum bites the flesh of my tongue. "What the fuck am I doing here?" I think out loud to my bitter surroundings.
"Oh the tangled web we weave, when first we practice to deceive."
I can never tell if the thoughts belong to me, or the bourbon, or the beer. Maybe they belong to someone else. Someone who loves you still. some long ago shadow of a dust covered love in a desert of mud.
Yeah, the days seem to fold together. No Monday or Friday. No 12th or 23rd. No ticking hands of ticking clocks. It's just a state of constant being. Of concrete love and stone bellies. Buried passion put down by liquid fire. smothered out until it is nothing but the numb hollow sensation of glass and bone.
I have no idea what day it is...
the smell of stale rum and stale smoke hangs lifeless
empty bottles gather in empty rooms
the silence you craved crashes against deaf ears
it's the unheard birds and the missing fireflies
grating like teeth into wooden walls
the musty scent of an animal caged dampens the fires
gritty nails claw at pale skinned visions
to holographic to be real
the scent of you still lingers among the snow drifts
The Snow is Dismal
Something in the weight of the wind carries the foreboding sense of suppressed emotions and infinite dread. Snowflakes, just an unnecessary freezing of water, brings about the unshed tears of the final days of you...and of me.
it's a dead sky above me. dank and dark, with the spoils of winter's wretched hand. I look to strength in my deadened flesh and find nothing but weakness and a fear. A new emotional state of fear. It gnaws at my spleen and my internal network. Unable to force it down and away...I embrace it.
there is nothing left to face in this world. A world I, myself, molded and welded with precision and care. It's lonely here in the smoky mists of the afternoon. I find the eternal pull of your soul. too far away to reach with trembling hands and trembling knees.
Movement isn't feasible here. It's just stone and me and the heavy weight of your eyes from somewhere far beyond the skyline.
I've turned my back on the ways of my youth, on the faith of my Bible clenching roots...But above all, I have turned my back against the beauty of the tragedy of you.
Such unwilling beauty cast aside to the splatters of brain matter against my skull. I am lost without you and yet I feign acceptance and serenity. perhaps I find the strength in your steady tug. The tiny tinge of pain that reminds me that you're there, s omewhere, just beyond the realm of my reach.
The snow is dismal and the day is fading...
And you’re my Major Tom...
it was the inner scars that scared me. I could disregard the loud and obvious scars of the flesh. the track marked arms and the vertical slashes on your wrists. I could look through the concise descriptions of your life. the brilliance of your eyes seemed to drown out the blare of the warning signal inside.
"you look at me in disgust." you say and I search for the words to explain the foreign look of despair and worry. "You can't even stand to touch me." it's anger on your perfect lips formed in insecurity and scrutiny and...is that fear from the fearless.
It was easy to look away from the marks of the flesh. the bruises on your knees.
the bite marks on your breast. it was the inner scars that scared me.
the ones that told you to run. the scars that feed you, whilst you feed your demons
"face them," I say. "Don't chase them."
you look away from my gaze and your slender fingers tap nervously on the sideboard. You are lost In a world of your creation. I see the doom in your crinkled nose and raised brow.
"You're my ground control." I smile at it all through the reality of it all. I smile in despite of myself. "and you're my Major Tom."