An unlicensed doctor performs an unsanitary operation
(the abortion of a magician)
Or…
It tastes like I’m carrying around a plague of dead rats in my mouth
(Open with legs spread, tools at the ready, hovering above the mystery; gaping open and sickly inviting)
The schizophrenic Surrealists are sword swallowing alone…. A full-scale war rages within their mouths; bleeding from the corners; spitting up the copper; sucking down the petrol; defecating perfectly formed fears. A distraught and feverish phenomenon, burning oil paint as an incantation to the artists of the past, drinking down the rain as it seeps from the open blue wound above.
An operatic dismemberment of our dissonant lives, a passive acceptance of war crimes. Soaking a long-suffering soul in scotch. A senseless pickling done for sensible reasons.
A year in a day and today rings in my ears, silly sounds that bend and tear. Where would Paine’s finger rest in today’s American fever-dreams? On a pen or on a trigger? On the veins of beating hearts filled up with nothing?
You say you want to keep at it, but you’ve got to go… well, that’s another way and that’s another world. Within that world is an endless game of sickening charades: Still not enough to make me cum. Still not enough to make me care. Still not enough to make me love. Still not enough to touch this heart.
It looses its charm once it becomes real. The ravings of a saint who is rational, sane and real. Just a couple of drinks and tell me who you are, who you really, really are. Just a couple of drinks and I’m playing god.
(End with bloody operating table)
AFTERBIRTH
All the ink runs from its pen leaving empty words – hollow hunks of fool’s gold.
Did I forget or have I never known? Show me mine and I’ll show you yours.
I always have to lie to lay with you. Shadow contemporaries moving glacier slow – marriage with heart-attack – sleep where wine flows.
No time to think, what name comes to mind? Who slides through your lips? Soft, silent, bleeding whispers, sent so slowly through the throat – mise en abyme –
Things are never what they seem, decisive hearts exist only in dreams.
The fool is hurt, the fool is hurt and what’s worse, he revisits his pain.
I want to break our love, break this town – push my life 6 feet underground…
Stone among stones I say goodbye.
Time to show what you’re capable of – no more compassion for pretty talk.
