Thursday, April 12, 2012


Yellow, putrid,
Stained door
Open wide
Open more
Open, gasping like a mouth
Open like a seasoned whore
Llike the fangs of an angered God
Open like the morning shore...

I could try pushing harder or pound on these doors with the pure strength that my body saves, in recesses so deep that I have barely heard their pulse. The strength I save for an extreme need of survival. I dispel the slightest fear that resides in my knuckles. The idea of getting hurt is more painful in thought. The act of it is a numbing rhythm. A grateful release from the swelling veins of my knuckles pushing against doors that I cannot defeat.

Let it be then, let it stand in merciless, unchanging hold. I turn away. I turn instead to the window in the laboratory to face the pure, blinding white where a soft gray would bruise and blossom underfoot as I would walk upon it. But the fury that brews in my head creates a heavy cloud, making it harder to see through the oily panes. So I let it go. A fleeting cloud of red escaping and losing itself in the stark white landscape that preserves everything imaginable under its snow. A swirling, plasmic red. What I made of the hate you left in me

Like a bookmark in pages too boring.
Like a swizzle stick in something that tastes of nothing.
Like fish food. 
Like a pest-stricken bunch of grapes.
Like a bottle of medicine for a once-upon-a-time disease.
Forgotten at a state of toxic potential.

When hate rots and its open sores gather venom inside you, the easiest thing is to strike at something relatively unresponsive in the way. To wait at the pavement for the next slow trickle of strangers to snarl at. Or the next insect to crush underfoot. Or the next day's papers to shred. Controlled unleashment thrust upon us by modern human ethical societies, when in another life I could be a poisonous beetle striking at fellow beings.
Instead we leave ourselves with no choice but to shrink into cocoons that we weave around us and let them slowly consume us. As though there wasn't enough binding us anyway. 

There  always is a smaller form of existence that will feed on what rots. And because the parasitic sting you left in me feeds your sickly sniggers, you should know how small you are. But you are many and enjoy multiplying in infectitious pools around me. Feeding, breeding, thriving and ploughing the poisoned skin that I can't wait to shed.

If I could exit this mad lab I would. If I could crawl out of this loathsome culture of rancid emotions I would. If I could, with a loud swash and thrust, escape this pool and this uncomfortably warm, itchy controlled environment to tear open the feverish pulse and drain myself of the venom, I would. If only I gathered the salvage and strength to break open these doors. If only I could uncover the snow instead with the exhausting effort to imagine what lies beneath it.If  I could gather it in mounds and preserve in it all that is decaying. And I would never turn back to your laboratory where you could inject me with your hate.
If only I knew what I sought that made me rot.
And even if you tell me it's ok to dream about it again
I would not.

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