Falling into the black streets, after rose teased hippy dropping slang romance of four thousand years – Jesus the skin of your mother once stretched over you and my weeping organisms of peanut butter and jam butties under an orange sky waltzing around the blue, that I bathe my imagination in every morning. Sucking on batteries is a sad thrill. Putting pasta on the rice shelf of a supermarket, is sad but these days after lemon zest verbs that caught origin of my first laugh, I moved my Proust swimming through the dark webs of thread thinning time – I’m always reading Proust but I never finish him. I slide down his greased ink words to Into pooled dark, deep within hidden recesses undisturbed by the fattest bluebottles, that free of the setting sun, into the hungry mouth of the heart before falling asleep, dreaming of petticoats and sorrow.
In kingdoms of nerves and veins, so thick they form columns, bodies loosened from bones sip hues from tainted glass windows depicting the words of god as light. The red god of retrograde mars, mouths streams of distortion, vibrates through flesh ripped from stems float like petals. Oh come now Mr Rudin the sky is just one stretched out tear, clothing each second in some thick ass sorrow. A tongue and a wig eats a burger and spits a gherkin at my window. Blake saw god and I see that. But angels dressed as baked bean cans, whisper psalms into my vacant eyes.
Even with my eyes closed I cannot see the end of me.
The autumn so full of scarlet sunrises drips upon my uncovered head. Dust and dreams infect the sinuses and sleepless nights that drift with no end mark my face so absurdly, that trees step back when they see me. A child cries into the caverns of her mother’s arms. Maternal fire, simmers across flesh not tempered by age. For all my posturing the world reminds me daily of my vulnerability. Oh to be silent and unaware, that would be nice. Death is as terrible as it is inviting. Come on Sartre let’s hold hands and jump from the mountainside. We can kiss if you want but I always preferred Camus. Just saying. The peeled saccharine notes of Disney Damsels slacken against the bricks of Manchester street-slashed night. Give me punk or give me death. In the distance tentacles suction cup your non conformity. Oh well misery and middle age are perfect accompaniments.
Written by David Hay