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.