http://stephenlin.bandcamp.com/track/tensile
I'm not one of the oceanic sleepers, the waves of people who toss and
roll and spend themselves like foam on the night air. I never move but
to swing in the wind, and I never swing unless someone opens a fucking
window for me. For once I'd like to rock with my dreams and learn to
take their punches with anything else but my body. But my body's well
built at least. At least this round wooden frame is wide enough to
trace out the sun I never see because I catch dreams in me. I catch the
dreams that the ocean can no longer bear and so throws out carelessly
as if it were something heavy. I wish they would break me.
My insides aren't hollow, but they were mostly empty space. They told
me I can never be full, but I've since learned to how to be filled and
to never want to see someone sleeping under me again. For them, the
familiar antagonists of their nightmares are feathery things, fallen
from a bird that they at least get to see. And feathers get fucking
heavy eventually. They keep leaving them with me as the morning dies
and they learn to fly out of bed, stop pretending to be dead and instead
rediscover what it feels like to battle real monsters without the
handicap in their head. Because I take the pain of a giant father's
anger and frustration on a good night, and a stained surgically dull
knife on a bad. I take the tears on the most beautiful face you'd ever
seen as the dream reminds the dreamer of how fear of rejection and
self-loathing translate to a broken heart that can't love anyone stupid
enough to love it back.
I tell myself they deserve it, that no one should ever carry the weight
of themselves alone but then who can save me from what I am? I am a
dream catcher and I only grow in. I'm made of sticks and strings and
beads and I trap inside of me the most poisonous parts of humanity so
that they can breathe easy. And so my lungs have no place to expand and
my heart beats less than weekly. Maybe monthly at best. I just want
to rest. I wish I were alive so that I could wish I were dead. I'm a
dream catcher. I'll fall off the wall eventually.
Wednesday, April 10, 2013
Omega Man
http://stephenlin.bandcamp.com/track/omega-man
I'm walking cornered by apartments and an obligatory dormitory complex. These windows used to be brighter during the day than at night but the blinds are broken and they let out the blackness inside every empty room. I'm too comfortable with sharp objects, thumbing a glass knife with an edge to cut a map of my neighborhood into my hand. It's an oral fixation but it goes deeper, into the jugular, but I'm relaxed. You see, you can bleed out through the heart and you stay tender without a chance to embrace rigor mortis. But I never want to talk again. I am the last living soul and I am sick of that dark noise in my head that destroys me speaking in my own voice. I'm sick of hearing myself, give me a permanent nepenthe, or I'll give it to myself. I'll go for the throat looking at the little piece of me that screams through a hole in my neck. Commit to it. Warmth spreading over the front of my shirt and I'm starting to succumb to the perpetual junkie shiver. There's a way to collapse gracefully, swinging ninety degrees, an incomplete circle. But I just fall to my knees without an audience to perform to, lowering my standards to the concrete. Look at me, all the broken glass like fractal eyes. Dispassionately, I think of psychedelics. I've been dead so long that I feel at home on the pooling ground. I turn away from solipsistic loneliness, the knowledge of a hollow and resonant universe. Darkness as the last stars take me to silent pieces with them. I'm everywhere, looking for directions to nowhere. I'm neverwhere, but all too aware. There was once potential in every living thing, but I am every living thing now. I am not the first but my birthright is to be the last. No future, and eventually no past. That's the plan, and it's been a real fucking long time coming. My blood's still running. I never imagined being so full when everything's so empty. Why won't it stop? Where is the paradise lost? Where are you, God when it is only my wasted faith, the dusty tears of my protesting prayers that remains to sustain you? I unfold myself from the sidewalk and it's unexpectedly not painful. I'm incubating in the hardening blood on my shirt. As easily as flesh rends, my neck, I'm unscathed again. The dirt is still stained sorrel with me: red and brown. I keep my feet moving. I keep walking through the blank tenements. I bake in the twilight of the encroaching summer night. Take me from this self-indulgent sorrow.
I'm walking cornered by apartments and an obligatory dormitory complex. These windows used to be brighter during the day than at night but the blinds are broken and they let out the blackness inside every empty room. I'm too comfortable with sharp objects, thumbing a glass knife with an edge to cut a map of my neighborhood into my hand. It's an oral fixation but it goes deeper, into the jugular, but I'm relaxed. You see, you can bleed out through the heart and you stay tender without a chance to embrace rigor mortis. But I never want to talk again. I am the last living soul and I am sick of that dark noise in my head that destroys me speaking in my own voice. I'm sick of hearing myself, give me a permanent nepenthe, or I'll give it to myself. I'll go for the throat looking at the little piece of me that screams through a hole in my neck. Commit to it. Warmth spreading over the front of my shirt and I'm starting to succumb to the perpetual junkie shiver. There's a way to collapse gracefully, swinging ninety degrees, an incomplete circle. But I just fall to my knees without an audience to perform to, lowering my standards to the concrete. Look at me, all the broken glass like fractal eyes. Dispassionately, I think of psychedelics. I've been dead so long that I feel at home on the pooling ground. I turn away from solipsistic loneliness, the knowledge of a hollow and resonant universe. Darkness as the last stars take me to silent pieces with them. I'm everywhere, looking for directions to nowhere. I'm neverwhere, but all too aware. There was once potential in every living thing, but I am every living thing now. I am not the first but my birthright is to be the last. No future, and eventually no past. That's the plan, and it's been a real fucking long time coming. My blood's still running. I never imagined being so full when everything's so empty. Why won't it stop? Where is the paradise lost? Where are you, God when it is only my wasted faith, the dusty tears of my protesting prayers that remains to sustain you? I unfold myself from the sidewalk and it's unexpectedly not painful. I'm incubating in the hardening blood on my shirt. As easily as flesh rends, my neck, I'm unscathed again. The dirt is still stained sorrel with me: red and brown. I keep my feet moving. I keep walking through the blank tenements. I bake in the twilight of the encroaching summer night. Take me from this self-indulgent sorrow.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)