This burn to a swig of rum from the bottle.
This hate that the throat knows when you haven't had a cigarette for a while.
So the day after a coronation. The day after a new dawn, and what do I get. The same kind of broken brain that I've always had. The same kind of dwelling on situations beyond my control that I don't know how to quash. Merton tells me to let go. So do Rollins, and Vonnegut, and Jesus H. Christ. But I want to smite my face.
This inside makes me wonder if I deserve mercy, or grace, or even the hope that I thought was so hard fraught.
"To the wounded:
I have seen the self image
they've forced you to reduce to shattered glass,
with the only remaining value lying in it's jagged edges.
But the few who warrant waiting for await their recognition."
I have seen the self image
they've forced you to reduce to shattered glass,
with the only remaining value lying in it's jagged edges.
But the few who warrant waiting for await their recognition."
And I'm looking at those blank pages that I thought would wrap up so fucking neatly. Open space to make a novel. And then it turns right back in to a memoir. Something past my reach, something below the boards ticking with vulture's eyes. Haunting me, over and over again. That eye. That god damned eye. I bet Poe would have laughed at me suffering in "Constant Hell" as the Buddhists call it.
The Hell of my own creation.
What if the Devil is just that fucker that I can't make eye contact with in the mirror? What if the details that he is in, are just me? What if Ja. is right and there is nothing? Do I have the confidence to face that and say to myself, "It truly doesn't matter."
I want to abuse. I want to have crisis of faith. I want to walk away from it all. But I cannot erase. I can't use blank for anything. It may be selfish, but in the back of my mind only the truly hated are deleted.
But I look at the candles that I keep burning, and the Virgin Guadalupe gutters smoke and dies before my eyes. Rosaries, and talismans burn this flesh. And I ache. I cannot be free of this secret dagger. It is Paul's thorn, Thomas' doubt, Christ's Magdalene. I'm my own Priory of Sion. My secret society is one. 138. Blood and thunder. Married to the sea.
So I say fuck the coke, give me the bottle, why mix. Let razors slide, heart, spark, dollar sign. The blues and Navy Rum are my Christ tonight. This is my crusade. And all the gold and dead heretics in the world will not slake my blood lust. And yet it is all worth it.
This is life with a wave.
I'm married to the sea.
File under Vice.
1 comment:
why is it when i read your posts i come away thinking i am more tyler durden and less jack's cold sweat? what's beautiful about men like us is when the waves pitch and roll, when the thirty footers crest and we realize we are not on top this time. it sure beats the placidity of calm waters and no winds, while at times we beg for stillness after a few days the stillness would be our undoing. and while you are right, i sometimes question the existence of that golden shore, i still ride the waves because my heart calls me forth, once again a situation where we can love completely without complete understanding. - - it's only after we've lost everything that we are free to do anything
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