I am in exile, a sojourner
A citizen of some other place
All I’ve seen is just a glimmer in a shadowy mirror
But I know, one day we’ll see face to face
Yes, hell is like this.
This blank, wee corner of dis-emphasis tucked away in an axilla off common boulevards. And I drink the streets coming into me, disowning the loss that people have felt from it. I am not responsible.
I am not much of anything.
The cruelty wages war on you from a sheltered nest of tar and twigs, just laughter reigning in cranberry bloom blossoms of colour languishing in the death of tidal pool prefuncta. I can't make these things up, unfortunately. What's real is as you like it, my dear, all the clay-made catharsis I comb up from the tarmac in mackintosh mannerisms solely set aside for that purpose. These skills are unavoidable in margins. It's a thin crease of paper in which I reside, life flickering only on the occasion that brilliance overflows, but I've managed to blacken over the lines that people ride between, forming shade and shadow and tattooed glean and gleaming space that humans have forgotten or abandoned or left tittering to itself once.
It all needed a home. While I've none, while I've void and vehemence, this darkness I've comprised, this comfortably little lacuna twilled in the absence of matter or meaning, this will be the deference.
And it's nice to make little difference, don't let them fool you else-ways. They'll talk of tall hopes and dreams, deep desires and meanings they should put forward and defend [parry, thrust, riposte!]. But this is about me. Well, me and the nothing and no one and non-willing and nether-ways of nevermind. After all, there are millions of billions of infinite infinities you've disregarded or unrecalled after a first somewhat promising but unimpressionable introduction, a fatal blip and beleaguered non-entity. And there. Just there, now.
Or so they'd have you think. Inattention being utterly inextricable from doom. But this is about me. And doom. Wine stains and all. Whisky and smoke, snow and silence. A film noir without charm or chin or even a whim to explore the possibilities of one or the other. Not even both, I suppose. But I've never been stranger to the secrets and soirees, just stranger to humans and morals and rules and saturation. Just stranger. To. These cities are dormant shadows, a facing of tundra and blanched sandstone carrying harmonies of manifestos festing on flesh, delicate delineations settling to edges with the unwritten and unwitting. The authorless me. Every scribble I've meandered in, leading a quiet sort of listlessness, unsheltered against the leaning wind and whorl of bloody, god-awful phrases and infractions made fractious within me.
Yes, hell is like this, my dear. It is unnerved and unnamed. It is immeasurably blistered and burning with war.
But mostly. It is yours.