||[Dec. 23rd, 2007|08:32 am]
"The sun burns darker on the east end".
The sword slipped from his sweating hands, parting blood from allegiance, a means to end, which can apply to all concepts. Far from the promise of the march. A march. Far from the promise of the purpose that even he would die for but knew not of the outcome. Who knew an outcome outside of the mob numbers? All lied in the moment of the battle, as if differenciating the fool with no eyes from those with sight who so eagerly tossed their crafted-by-others weapons into veins and organs, tearing cells apart without regard for karma or moksha. It is man who is killed, not biology. That which continues regardless of horror or what simply is.
His enemy's blade fell upon him, retarded with anger, as he laid prostrate................
And he struck his mind with only air as witness. He shook his sword in hand unlike what he intended in dreams of impossible glory. He once dreamt of his wife's tears as the only possible outcome from such a fate, one who had left years ago. Second strike prevails! Perhaps the final oath is reneged another day, as her long wishing ghost fades into carbon dioxide and just another necessary breath needed to make another useless point..........whatever it is. He swallows as the body of this behemoth falls upon him, all seven feet and three hundred pounds of him, hands pointed up hoping to catch him, soon pointing down to scoop earth to bury him. There is a hideous symetry to the slain, he knows that. Falling in such strange angles and directions.........He only notices this as his DT's take hold, the terror of rare liquor stores closing and the idea of newfound horror and it's almost-always open stores looming in his addled mind. Slain are afoot to be buried. DT's are here and now, blunt and here and now as Al Green's bitch tossing scolding hot water on him in the shower. Whatever happened to her? Fuck her. Luckily, he has the magic elixir in his coat pocket, saving him for the next few hours. The pounding in the core of his anotomy, like the absolute of the sun raining down on a dandelion, has calmed where even the sense of a single day has died. Anatomy has stated her case. And Death has said "you don't want to swim at the end of this pool". He knew the paradox even before the withdrawal set in: He was a hero who would perhaps never be saved, no would anyone look under the skin for what really saved their skin. And his skin was Nth priority.
Shaking still, he stares at her window. Tints of blue, red from the night sky that he last remembered, and the desperation poured down in rain spilling red and blue into fragments harsh and so many different shades. Her eyes, the few times he's seen them, never change. Hands slam horizontal shades shut. His eyes slam vertical through the linear paths of his life. But his hands go into a certain and known way once he ventures into the garbage. His need is known, and her's is unknown. Yet he knows that how well his need is known, the true need is like fighting fist-first against the clouds tumbling aimless towards him. She wants to toss cans at this strange person. Dishes are to be tended to, housecleaners to call, a high end job to struggle to hold............is there? There is no karmatic purpose here amongst these empty fridges who bow to aimless families, laundry in need of a tenant who knows how to seperate them when he no longer knows how to seperate the simple things such as love......... a trust fund budget spent on a slow, burgeous diet of Diet Coke (the only saving grace), Pall Mall's, Denny's, and friends who some male friend she fucked most likely have fucked while she menstruated any kind of light to dry his tears. She eats his share which is under 2 pounds a month, she drinks her share, more than, well, haha, who wants to figure? She drinks once every 6 months, he drinks a six pack in under an hour before work. What is the difference?
He enters the bar, a bullet only grazing his left ear; grinces and laughs as he tosses back a........who knows how much?.......a pint of scotch. Straight. His hand cringed not once in the once swig. Only in his mind, which is always between halucinations from not drinking and drinking, showed any memory of the dark side he knew and the dark side that he knew he had fed, crawled to, and for which he left himself a permanent immolation on a worldwide display which he'd endue until the day he'd die. A day he knew he was to weak to ever take command over; this one thing he thought he had control over.
His eyes stammer and stand out as if......no, his wife is somehow here, no need to use that as an analogy....he no longer has an analogy to stand to. The idea of lonelisness is all his own, capturing the idea of his youth that love never existed in the first place, that getting a hard-on was the apex.
And she, sitting still, with tears wearing the mortar that so many soldiers' died for, rained her tears into the very mortar she hugged for comfort, partly for discomfort.
He loves............but he know he's an alcholic, something he knows is a dead sign of the unlovable, the horror that they face with DT's is their own doing, faced with the ever-present ads for alcohols of all kinds, the people who live the nightlife that sober people want to be a part of when not dragged into the materialist lifestyle they crave. But hey, alcohol is how much of the nightlife? Madam Feroy has her share, trust me. Soccer players, royals from here to the Middle East (hush, hush!), anyone you know uses alchol, so where is there abuse? Alcoholism is much more around you than vegetarinism and bars more abundant than gyms. What is dying in American life when everyday is a given cycle, another day to shop, exhaust the buy's comforts as well as anyone around us? Drink. Drink. At least learn the catacombs of human suffering. You have the largest organ in your body, your liver, and you whine it might get cirhosis? Look at how long it took Jack Kerouac to die from that! 46 years! And this guy was seen in his 20's after being signed for "On The Road", one of the most poular books of all time, in the elevator passed out with a bottle of a gallon liquor of Wild Turkey. Haha!
He kissed her lips, only to fall over, catching himself on that strange protrusion of cliff that made it too far to thrust a hand to a suitable rock to hold. Only she stood, and there was the only thing that kept him any bit assured: her. The cliff was long climbed and stones returned to earth all too soon, human hands torn raw. A vibracience without a frequency, but would this man care for this next step, though for his survival, go beyond his wife at home dying of cancer?
He laid a kiss so dear to her it was like dumping an oversized, underinflated medcine ball into a 3 foot hole. Light cannot be without the light of a woman, the ones who are born to understand light befre any man. But he also knew he had slain over 100 men who laid their hand before her breast, even a yard or two apart. But, for every inch of flesh you truly love, a mile of passion must be adorned.
His lips left her's, dry as the leaves that flew around them, and impossibily pontless. Pale and horribly shriveled, even worse than the years of drinking and involuntary anorexia had taken on him. Cancer, or departure; both seemed the same in his heart at this point, though he thought that somehow it was yet another horrid experience that would lead him to some incredible tax refund of karma. Was it her lips or the lips atop the vodka bottle? It wouldn't matter. Her absence was perhaps either a huge knot wrought hard in his fragile existence, or a push towards death; the thought of all senses dying, a state where most idiots claim there is no suffering, but there is a silent suffering in not sensing at all. And what is life when love never listened in the first place? And what is death when love never existed in the first place?
The questions flood his booze-addled brain. "Nightmares without meaning, and dreams without function. Touch without another. A baboon beating it's chest so hard it's own heart stops beating, much like I wish mine would, a hideous song it beats so loud without one other person to hear. A person I'd love, endear, lose and leave me here in this corner where I've rusted into the bricks and mortar of a place long forgotten, leaving me a face all can laugh upon and offer some sympathy, only to look away rightfully at my face as a horrid joke no longer worthy of despise. But another drink, and he may, may, may be on track, though the horror of sobriety, the real world, leaves him in horror. Who wants to face a world like this anymore? Drawing his sword, he leaves, thinking here and there of the princess, but often laughing it all off. He is a warrior, not thinking of such things. Love could only die under these circumstances, and most of the time he wishes it would do just that, dancing upon is eyelids, playing cruel tricks to personify the life he's known or has yet to wisen up to yet. I swill more Wild Turkey. My veins will be slit open, veils of flowers will pop out at the first sight of alcohol, as it always does. I can imagine tons of drunk friends, who I'd admire for the fifth's in their hands, stabbing me and tearing parts of my face, finally acknowledging a drinker far more prime than they've been. Tear my skin apart, drink it. I am a horrific human being. And for that, if anything I am drinking myself to death too slowly.", he reassures himself.
An angel must have awoke on Sunday morning, though no one noticed or awoke to it. Sunlight is always here, but outside of that day where once a week it's designed to be something more, it appears.
"To the confecial booth........ What has happened before I ask?", asks Father Valentino.
A pained syllable exits the mouth of the child before muting. He turns his back, as he, in the mute silence turns his head after a harsh swill of vodka that sent his gag reflexes into automatic. Eyes red and yet containing the horror and strange familiarity turn towards the sun, with it's radiance, the only radiance he can remotely dream of, beaming on him in false allegience. "Couldn't you tell?", he stutters, as his head bows into his upward palms. A taste. A pure taste that emobidies character and weakness, a thousand dragons bursting from his skin to do battle against an enemy that may or may not be dead or alive. Either way, the war must be waged. For once there is peace, purpose is lost, and senses drain into inactivity.
He held the flask until the crying unsettled it from his hand, thankfully across the street. His head slumped, rather hit, the edge of his apartment complex as he slid back into the common coma that would give his heart subtle rest from the pain of noticeable beating.
He knows that Rachael, the most gorgeous woman he has ever known, has come and left, never to come again. The sword has come down upon him again and again, thinking of this point and wanting to die, but something from her threw his biological essence aside. But to throw that sword aside, only to know everyone would shun him and this hulking monkey he never knew rode on his back since birth swerved every direction he knew but loose? A sword is useless when the hands no longer know their direction. A tea cup slobbers onto a table from the noble knight's mouth. Into the mouth of someone more worthy, as if something more worthy meant being someone worth something at all.
His hand thrusts, much more fiercely than his hand ever did a spear, to the rum. Raw, burning, painful as it is enticing despite it's painful burn, fingers could break it's trademark longneck and still fragments would be scraped for it's chemical romance, perhaps the only romance that many would ever know. Who cares? Another fucking monkey riding on a broken back. And as we all know, the only true morpine for a broken back is death. The ultimate morphine.
His hands are trembling as he shakes his hands towards the hordes. The tremor under his feet reminds him all too much how his own blood is both pounding behind his own eyes, and how he has to defend his kingdom; a king who now has to face his own sole malaise; a mask, crown, a horrid mutation of his power and strategy. Or at least the latter two once were. A king would think a step ahead, those of power think in steps upwards. But who cares of kings? A beheading will always be the constitution of rank, whether cannibalistic peasant or drumstick-tearing royal, power in whose hands that move foward the hardest and quickest. But now his hand is trembling, asking in secret.........."What about the wine reserves?", the sweating and panting thrusting his shaking hand, pretending courage was the point, rather than a desperate walk towards a store or pub that would now be as easy as crawling on skinless knees at this point. The legions arose, and each line had the duty of tossing him backwards as to be further away from harm. Away from stomping, while forging ahead into death...........the trickiest part, a toss of the dice into a centrifuge. Left to lay under the golden sun hallucinating, a point where bare sun becomes horror. The sword stumbles from his quaking hands, stumbling, a slice of nerve shakes him from his siezures and into the slight feel far remembered while drunk. A far off reminder, a spark at the ends of his cynapses, that he may still be part of any species, even if it's a species who forgot whether to survive or thrust arms out and back falling into extinction. The often forgotten part of human equation: suicide in so many ways, even in ways that don't even involve the self. And for Hussey, he dances this dance where philosophy dances with flaking wings.
But for now, he tosses his gauntlet into the throat of a stallion who tosses it's rider into paralysis. And aptly grabs the flask at it's side, finding...........clear gold! A liquor! A single crisp white light to this raging fire. He knows all too well how important control is at this point, even his own anatomy dictates it. Enough to hold his nerves with fifteen seconds of the chained mace flying towards his face to barely steer out of the way and attack the now-open hand of the attacker. Drunkeness becomes mathematical; the arithmetic of when and how someone even more drunk will attack if slighted just out of nothing else to survive, perhaps to drink that last drop, and endless, increasingly unhibited accounting for a habit that makes the math simpler and simpler when eating and society are sand where castles once stood. That image brings the sand to his eyes as his raised his eyes only to see a harsh parade of horses and merauders miraculously stomping completely over him, especially his arms.
One tremor right now could break all bones in his arms forever, and even one move towards the bottle dripping at his hand could fuck up this violent but harmonic balance forever. Inching slowly, he rowed the bottle towards his lips, an IV of pure lead that would carry him in route to being poisoned with the simple concept of wanting to die. And now his body drags just as heavy.
Nighttime arrives, and the long blastbeat of hooves was now silenced. But they did, however, go to sleep within three yards of that point. Wouldn't explain some of the ritualistic stabwounds, but it's a theory that could well become mythology. And perhaps religion if enough people join up. More people have probably committed suicide than have murdered someone. Who knows when you're the only survivor of this, when you're the one shaking your own anatomy where the fully functional one would fall over backwards for this kind of wild longevity?
He throws himself via the hard end of his palms.