7 July 2005

Short Writ of Common Indecency

and they listen to teeth to learn how to quit
tied to a night they never met
you know it's time
that we grow old and do some shit
i like it all that way

There's always a desperation, a challenge, a "god doesn't live here" moment. Pasting shapes to faces, superimposing some semblance of humanity onto a mirror, and silent, slim hook of a hip curving into palm as irony chuckles in that silver smirk. Yes, this is an obvious contradiction to yourself, but you have to laugh. Smile. Maybe even love if you knew how. How is an awful word. You feel bubbles under your skin that somehow echo the sound and nothing makes more sense. The decompression, the weightless rising of idea, threading nitrogen through veins and vessels, bloating and surging hitting your lungs.
And you're sucked between worlds, a human divot in the atlantic contriving the currents and stewing in the juices that slip back from their skin, eddying, hailing. The rocks circulate and swallow. They tip and wallow, break the caps and arc with the tide in a pale rainbow of oil fed disillusion. It's dusk. The night's been revived by the shockwave of dizziness from its daily spin, breathing in and intoxicating itself on the amorous glee that folds about our chests. The second wind. The first sips of cold night air culling the exhaustion. Time to rise. And you step out of the flat, if only seemingly for a moment, and disappear with the meandering functionality of your feet, long painted stretches of limelight and red granite soaked in the stuff of delirium.
There's no ticker-tape or rose-petal, red carpet reception, not for you. Just the muggy gray tiling of cement layered on rebar, the cold path of solid cohesion, boring distraction, inane recompensation for those thoughtless words you've spent. Cheap at the time though they were, it's always a bit pricier on the other side of the ocean. That's why you said that silence was golden, a priceless phrase so to speak. The more you keep back, the further from identifying with others, the tighter your chest grows with the slow push of sullen reclusion. I think stars feel the same way. They flare nova into the dust, clearing systems of planets and suns, then suck themselves under
drowned by their own divinity for that single moment of infinite pulse.