Monday, October 28, 2013

sweet apple cider

All I'm thinking about is them, and you, and spices that smell like Christmas Eve in Germany. My senses are imprisoned and all I can think about is that sweet apple cider, sitting, steaming in a mug, waiting, wanting me to sip until every ounce of me is drenched in Johnny Appleseed goodness. Pour it over my worries, refill until my anger is emptied and my sadness is dissolved away into a solvent of apple cinnamon. It warms my stomach, and heart, and head, and I'm happy. I'm happier than you were on the day your dad bought you your first piece of piano music, and I'm even calmer than your mother when she knows you are sleeping safely at home. Puncture my heart, bleed my veins, enslave me with your scent, all can be undone in one simple sip. The image of your face no longer ripples my memories and I've almost completely forgotten (except some days when I'm leaving the house without a key and want to tell you how much I love a certain morbid poem). All I'm really trying to tell you is that I'm drinking hot, sweet apple cider without shame and hoping against nothing that tomorrow it will snow glory from the skies and delay the long weeks before Christmas. All I'm saying is that if you could dance outside right now, I would dance with you, and I might even leave my apple cider behind for you, unless you might want some, because you like it as much as I do.

Monday, October 14, 2013

filth

I'm swimming through the filth of disgrace,
                                                  disappointment,
                                                  degrading
filth that clouds my vision and penetrates my skin,
                                                                   flesh,
                                                                   veins,
eating away every bit of sustaining meat that surrounds my
                                                                                  your
                                                                                  their
faces and I cringe when I see the skeletons of their thoughts, sleeping away their time in a corner and eating their cake like it just came out of a warm oven and laughing when it burns away their tastebuds. The acid that once scalded their membranes is seeping out of the soil and they've learned to live and breathe every bit of it while whistling endless tunes such as "Blow the Man Down" and "London Bridges." And every once in a while they look over at their companions in the public tomb of humiliation and remind each other that "It gets a little dark down here, mate, but you'll adjust." After all, they are missing their eyes,
                                                                                                                      hair,
                                                                                                                      hearts.
Sleeping away every minute of their mindless, dead existence and waiting for new rotting flesh to join their crypt of faith. If only they could hear the world only seven feet above them, whirring,
                                                                                                                  spinning,
                                                                                                                  racing
ahead, past morals and past technology and past every imagination they could have ever imagined in their lifetime. If perhaps they could glimpse the present, they might understand and be grateful for early death.