Ratmachines.com

Fiction

Drops

7
GHOST TOWN

I am a casualty, one of the dead. All reports to the contrary are false, and should be treated as rank propaganda. I do not make these observations to complain, however. My intention is more mundane: there being no grounds for complaint (nor for progress) the mere sound of my voice must suffice. The rumblings reported earlier have passed, scattering lotus blossoms and rose petals, daisies, daffodils, then eerily shaped exotic varieties I cannot name but examine suspiciously nevertheless.

I am not greedy, but demand nothing less than all. Although demands are made and sought the nature of the game is not to play in the first place. That much is certain. I do not want to say more. I have taken loans and made promises, none of which I intend to keep. Calling me a scoundrel might soothe frayed nerves but will, I guarantee, accomplish nothing. Spitting fire I offer canned promises to the unbelievers, then turn my back and examine walls pockmarked by the bullets of an assassin. My behavior can be labeled violent, if such is your choice.

I shout out warnings although I am held back by unseen hands; the warring factions split then regroup in functionally tempered manifestations of the godhead itself. Within the breathes I hold like gold or rare mints there are gathered nothings and bundles of passions left over like rubbish at a yard sale where all things are bought at a fair price. Of course the price of unreason is another blank eyed stare, against which I can offer nothing but more vignettes and fables. Speculations aside, there are no perfect outlaws or laws, tearing at each other's throats like panthers in the wild. Although I am not greedy I, like any other sane entity, seek only perfection: the motion of vibrating fluids coalescing around nothing, gathered around a center without circumference; a circumference without center. The words fail to describe the illusion – nevertheless, each point describes and challenges itself perfectly. Perhaps it is not necessary to say more.

I drink too much, then take aspirin to relieve my hangovers. My lies attract nothing but pity – taken as mere vomit, they fade and wallow without mercy; taken as doubts they signal the last dawn of a man made weary by endlessly recycled versions of cosmopolitan utopias (packaged in versions acceptable to the shopping public, of course). My letters fade then echo with satanic laughter. I hold hands with false promises and idiotic posturings; despising the cold, the doubt, the reverberation of unanswered cries, I take the presence of death as first sign of better things to come. I move awkwardly towards the first generation of men , closely followed by waves of seconds and thirds, selling out their options as if tomorrow were only a word. Told not to care I nod politely to the meanest of mean. I want only a firm massage and a warm embrace. To be sure, I scream, then let go, grabbing for handholds and footholds and chalk-marked loopholes through which graft and decadence take root and prosper. And everything is as was promised in the good book, out of which all is born (and in which all is rooted), including even the first and last lies. Split legged wonders moan and carry on as if there were something of note taking place, but the first of many empty sighs does nothing to deceive eyes filled with the tissue of the dead. Bile floats to the surface but offers slim condolences to the still born, the quiet yearnings relegated to the depths out of which we all crawl at one time or another. Putrescence is my father and mother, and will bear each of my children, one by painfully screaming one, until the day ends in words withheld for all time, expressions molded for a perfectly joined assembly of drastically differing containers of flesh and bone.

The first word, however, is wet, and crawls around our bodies in midnight revelries obscenely lit by pirated red mysteries. Widely spread rumours take hold and prosper; by full moons come and gone there are never more than reports and golden parachutes. In safe houses I learn there is no safety; in twilight I see no returns or benefits. Grimacing a little before the last onslaught we try to laugh but can produce only salt and whiskey. We watch (commenting all the while on their odd behaviors) the coarse panting of rabid dogs; crying out to the moon the dogs know themselves far better than we ever will. Criminal codes blur; the lines are unclear, prosecutor and jury alike stand holding hard glasses raised up in the air, then drain them, to a man, in one gulp. Witnesses sigh before getting up to leave; the doctor, who had been promised substantial benefits if the verdict was positive, groans at the thought of the long lonely ride home, then sucks in his stomach, having noticed a particularly well proportioned woman staring at him quite openly from across the courtroom. She whispers names of lovers long passed, never to be, never to come, then spreads her legs wide and sucks him in without even stopping to take her clothes off. He takes with him every belonging, she cries for him then splits apart the elements, leaving only nameless entities behind. Varnished and clean he watches his reflection in the polished steel mirror, placing holds across his chest in imitation of moths and multi-hued dragonflies. Shining green and bold he takes one arm out of his socket, then, using it as a lever, pries out the other. As he dismantles himself, the pile of pieces grows steadily, but also at the same time shrinks (seeing as the dismantled pieces are growing progressively smaller) until there is only a pool, into which dive bluejays and blackbirds.

Dripping wet she calls my name, making me next in line I think but there is no line, no next, no inside or out. Every part is whole, every part breathes fire and days of dead martyrs. All drafts are burned in the evening fires, then sold for fertilizer to low bidders interested only in a quick profit. Bribery does the rest, carrying on a tradition without history. Drained of blood, singing songs of praise stolen directly from the heart of africa – where no man can lay claim to the rights of rule without first checking in with clan leaders and chieftains – I carry on as if nothing were amiss. Armed to the teeth the rebels provide security for a price – weapons, after all, not coming cheaply. Fantasy vacations blend into surreal landscapes littered with parked cars slowly being stripped for parts and labor. I have no faith nor place to put my hat; the delighted sighs of grandfathers and priests ring cracked and stale and take me nowhere I have not been before. Time is slow, somersaulting randomly about with neither rhyme nor reason. I sell offers and instruments of torture; I plunge daggers of hate into the first face that comes smiling to my door. In the time left over I listen to the latest baseball scores then collect the bets I did not make from reluctant bookies. Animosity grows until it is nowhere and everywhere, bleeding out of the pavement into cracks formed in yawning pits of well ordered daybreaks. Conversing vapidly I hope no one will notice the discoordinated characters stumbling about drunkenly, naming themselves recklessly after fading deities.

Brilliant beyond belief cavities fester into open doors swinging wide across the light that blazes blue and orange sparkles across the horizon, leaving only disjointed parts swimming about inside of themselves, holding onto rafts made of dying flesh. The stale breath smokes out over fields of grain rustling gently in the spring breezes sold out well in advance of the performance but still held over for weeks at a time. Mad stares invite me into their cluttered houses, through which no vacuum can pass uninvited. Artificial homes sprout up in the fields and valleys, spreading sanitized pestilence packaged in odor free packets of twelve and twenty for greater savings. Roaming bands of satyrs throw over nymphets barely beyond the age of consent, ramming home unbridled messages taped in advance for easy replay. Twisted flesh takes root, growing into plants containing only the first hints of freedom and raw mouthed cries of ecstasy. Sounding off in two's and three's the words line and cross before sending final drafts to the printers for proof of employment.

On heaving breasts the world comes and goes as it pleases, spraying sperm over stomachs cast in iron, filled with dreams and fresh fruit. Side by side I take offered hands and toes crossed for good luck then say goodbye. Sending out for infantry reinforcements is of little use, there being a general amnesty in affect, for the time being at least. Taking hold of organs large and small swollen into distended balloons eager to drift off into the sunny spaces above the clouds I piece together stories of happiness eaten whole. In the night, when candles light small paths and burn hands and knees in two part harmonies, dogs prowl about aimlessly, perhaps in search of fresh meat or discarded sandwiches. Mushrooming beyond belief the quiet days grow long, then stretch out in infinite progressions numbered in the thousands. Striking farmworkers picket and complain but are undersold anyway by ruthless manufacturers of agricultural commodities. With no face greed takes on warm features; outside the cracks loom larger, then finally swallow the world with a loud belch. I drink in bodies like cheap wine, caring for the cost of course but never the consequences. Rotating over spaceless avenues rapidly escalating undulations scurry for cover; bent on discovery they beg for food and drink, kneeling with hands held out and head turned away to avoid embarrassing themselves, or us. Dry the pool squirms uncomfortably in the sunlight, dry the heart and lungs and intestines twitch in the final throes of death. Called out to grow grasses and grains an anxiously gossiping armed force searches in vain for its missing members. Watched over religiously by rabbis well paid for their efforts the chosen few dawdle before attaining retribution for their sins, ceaseless and infinite in number.

A pornography of the mind thrusts poorly fitted condoms and sexual aids through cavities and orifices enlarged and gorged beyond belief. An obsession holds and sways easily in gelatinous motions crafted by the first hand of god. Legs spread wide, the waters of love cascade forth in moist embraces. Tongues shove themselves into swollen flesh. Explorations of an increasingly arcane character develop physics and alchemies which, when mature, turn and consume their creators. Despite the complaints I mold myself in comfortable arrangements of old songs and retired positions (kept in stock on the walls of temples singing praise to the highest art). Disadvantaged by latex the ministers grope blindly for aid and comfort, then retire to their quarters for a short rest. Heaven, after all, and despite rumours to the contrary, is a hard place. The fruit of passion is uncaring embraces torn in half by wild dogs. Plunging home, my thoughts startle messengers, who step away, embarrassed at the sight, and of course more than a little worried about their jobs and wives. Gyrating hips shoot spasms of incoherently coded signals across passages and alleys without laying claim to the future. The length of one ray of sunlight casts doubts over all others until finally it has spread across ellipsoidal universes filled with squabbling crowds of poor and abjectly suffering points through which we can at any time shoot wads of haphazardly folded tissues, waiting only for the slightest excuse to issue forth from the mouth of the heavenly hosts to carry out our manipulations and degradations; bound and gagged into submission our eyes cry for mercy but are quelled by tears moistened with the song of love.

Nothing is hard, nor soft. All is an affect of training and discipline. The middle comes between the two furthest points, then wriggles its hips, inviting one and all to join in the party. By themselves these points spin about uselessly, together there is some relief. In doubled phrases the disciples choose their sides, assessing the relative strengths and weaknesses of their opponents with well trained eyes. Jutting over the rims of pearly wash basins faces spread cheer and good tidings before instigating another round of well meaning genocide. Conversations lag then droop dismally, fending off hostile suitors disguised as white knights. Everything moves in then out, pausing for breath before pushing on – insane motion describing geometries global in their perspective. Assembled the gods voice concerns which go ignored in the general uproar. In the mouths of virgins and polished professionals (tiring rapidly of games played by children in the park) bubble pools from which are carefully selected choice morsels fit to satisfy any connoisseur. The art of sensation assembles itself even when it is most in doubt. Telegrams inform visitors about the next sale, double ended dildos designed for years of use provide maximum relief at low cost. Never more than a phone call away goes the song but when I open the door there is no one there; the worn message spiraling through pools leaves no moisture behind.

Distilled the water pours out, evaporating into a sticky mixture of sweat and precious bodily fluids. Every drop is divided into two – one for the bodies breathing together, one for the sages, without whom we would be nothing. Saints call from specially marked vantage points around the room; I would listen to their song but find them too dry. Perhaps it is in the nature of promise to collapse – I have vanished before my word leaves my lips, so who is to be held accountable, after all? But nothing is gained from idle thought. What counts first is the engagement of the proper machinery – organs and tubes and valves and small switch mechanisms take their places, as they should, following in their parents' footsteps when all else fails. I have coins, of course – that is not the problem. In the first light, sighs like comets fall. In the remaining time we begin, stressing the start anxiously, feet lodged on wedges. There are setbacks: the world does not let us forget so easily but relents now and then, if only to tease us into further submission. The rot that had set in leaves scars; the scars are the first then, and will be sent into manufacturing plants and office complexes for examination. There is no choice, no reason, no bounds or definition. There is only a vague uneasiness. I cry for all that has been lost, wishing never to have kept it in the first place. I am weighted down by dreams, and crawl about like an oversized baby over drastically misproportioned floors and stairways. In the west the battle rages on; despite calls for prosperity the dollar declines further.

In the dust filled streets the houses lean in upon themselves, collapsing at inconvenient moments with dull creaks. The ghosts of the past haunt me through ten thousand miles of running; I am ignorant and pray for a touch to calm my nerves. The need for rest is apparent; every battery of nerves twitches in anxious harmonies; the muscles string themselves out over long lines of clay and mud. Spitting out glass I leave the bar, where the counterman had given me snide looks before serving me. What is called for is complete synthesis, an abandonment of past effort in exchange for future reward. The whole matter is quite puritan, and so not so completely foreign. My loins stir, watched over by careless municipal workers. Behind these organs are chains of rusted steel, writing stories about dead men and women when there is work to be done. I send briefs designed to kill then turn quickly, leaving the scene of the crime by itself, for itself, in itself. All the selves applaud, it being in their best interest. A complete destruction is a fantasy; fantasies are the seeds out of which will one day grow new worlds. The rot is rooted in decay, of course. And decay is death, decomposition, transformation: wood and leaves into loam, for instance. Nobody cares how this happens, it is simply accepted for what it is. Your feet spring lightly through the dark of the forest. That is all that you need to know. The periods of alienation are never smoothed over; they breed doctors and mental workers but no solutions. Blaming our hands is only a beginning; the real job comes after we are finished and go home; that is where the peace must burn. I give nothing then, being nothing, vanish. I, not I, say I am not. The most simple logic. I(+) say I(+) am(X) not(–), that is, +X– = –. The 'am' acts as the multiplying function. I am embarrassed to resort to such devices, but rules are rules, after all, and must be broken if they are to retain any integrity whatsoever. The X is the thrust of flesh against flesh, the warm passing of urine, all the things we take for granted, song and dance and the passing of the seasons. It is the great X, the controller of all. We bow down to it, hoping our knees can sink low enough to satisfy its perverse tastes. It puts together what is not apart, and separates what is together. It is nothing, but, worse, it is not even a nothing with self-respect. It vomits at the dawn, spits into the eye of god, peels back your eyelids and inserts tacks and pins. It needs no rest, and moves eerily between the moments, constructing never changing patterns into which are inscribed strange notations. It is the devil in the heart of god, the word split then thrown to the lions. Without it + and – are nothing, and dissolve, as they should. We are the end result of several million years of error. I take the needle and devise wicked plans to dissect the living brain of an infant. I am not evil, but do not care about starving children in africa. The only issues of concern to me are those that directly concern me. My ego is the new god. It has taken itself, turned and twisted the reflection until it finds itself and its evolutions satisfactory, then installed itself as the first and last principle. Within every breath somewhere lies god, so why not as the breath, the mouth, the air, the lungs and throat, the tongue, the muscles and nerves powering the whole affair, and so on until every aspect of everything falls into my breath. Why not toss the X altogether? And the – and + as well, while we're at it.

I will cut my hair short, fly to distant lands, plant flowers said to bloom in spring, watch old lovers find new love, delight in the small droppings that line the old city streets. I will throw over game playing adolescents, scolding them in the process until they surrender to the great television lighting their living rooms. I say no more and walk away, at peace at least with myself. I deafen myself with music, destroy my taste buds, burn out my mind, inure myself to physical sensation – the eyes at least need nothing, being failures as they stand. Every action poses a new threat, then fades off into pools from which swim small tadpoles. Wallowing in –'s and +'s is all well and good but does nothing for the stomach. Peace reigns supreme but knows its rule is only a joke. Each sentence, taken by itself, is a story, and each story of course has a beginning, a middle, and an end. Sometimes, however, the order is mixed, making for some confusion. But there is no need to panic: the day begins with smiles and ends in moans. I question the necessity but never the needs themselves – they are sacrosanct, and dwell in gold houses. To kill me, that would be something, wouldn't it? I can imagine the process: the knife (or gun) flashes in the light of the street (it being otherwise dark), then a pierced sensation, unlike any I have experienced before, then....? Presumably 'then' is a mistake, except for the few odd hairs and fingernails that push themselves forward for a few days there is no then to speak of. I am nothing then breathe. I am breath then open my thighs to the warm tongue that envelopes me. I am the pig wallowing, the pasture growing, the frost white on the ground. I am the clay and sand as well – also the armies marching in ordered rows. Generals and martyrs alike take their commands from me. I am sin and the dead and the life that drains out and in through sluices built of lead and sunlight. I am the imagination that calls and dreams, then hangs up to go to sleep. I am the north in its coldest moment, and laugh at the efforts of other worlds.

I am born in the highest and lowest reaches, my hands call for good flour and yeast – the bread, I explain, is the key. I go on about such matters because they interest me, nothing more. There is no answer or question, the generally accepted avenues merge into smooth flows of traffic. My pores are cars, my hair steel beams, my sweat the contrail of an airplane. I am in and with all, and laugh when the world says I am I and nothing more. I freeze with the stars and burn with the sun, so how can you possibly say I am alone? The oil that warms my feet is the fruit of millions of years of sunlight, the food that fills my stomach as well. Each element contains the keys for the others; the abstract accusations at least are half true. If I call a spade a spade, for instance, I will be called either a straight shooter or a racist. To call a thing by anything other than its name is an odd idea at best. Burning with fever is better than another night with handless love. The sky is all I have, then even that is lost – before, I had made certain promises, which, as you know, I am unable to keep. I want sin but find drab wonder workers. I want excitement and live with unchanging certainty. There are demands made as well, for honesty, resolution, trust, and so on. I am happy with each in its turn, until the last buries my under its heart, pumping out organs tuned to alien scales. My fish dance, my carrots walk away, disgusted, my best advice is left to die, by myself especially. I am the one to blame, and accept this fact with grace and more dignity than I thought I could muster up on such short notice. The music overwhelms then fades; I am not sure I have heard a thing – perhaps my ears have finally failed me.

All matters concerning themselves with rot and decay must pass through these narrow lines. I want nothing to do with any of this – the story is someone else's, always, of course. The words as well. I cannot think but do not, cannot, understand that this is because there is no thinking. The same goes for speaking. My hand is offered but is nowhere to be found; my pants slip around my legs, leaving me cold and exposed. All salient features are discussed in polite dinner table conversations. The end has come, I shout out loudly, while the guests look this way and that nervously, trying to map out their escape routes in advance to avoid the stampede. My voice rises in intensity, then falls back, as if exhausted. The borderline cases – cracks glistening in the sun – applaud then go on about their business. Computers gleam, plastic dull and grey but who cares, it's what's inside that counts, we are reminded again and again, by salesmen paid to blather on in this fashion by well financed corporations. Every so called advance is a retreat, every retreat the ostrich at its idealized best; there is nothing, there is everything, I am lost, I breathe, I vomit, I spit, I cry, I want to dance but find my feet are stuck in clay, I stop.

With that I am happy – before the last came drops, then I slid around on greased bellies. There is nothing to be gained by further pursuits; the chase for knowledge, if it does not lead to ignorance, must surely kill everything, and more completely than any bullet, no matter how well aimed. Irregular heartbeats flow then divide into two. Each half trembles slightly then goes on about its business. Before the two was one, and before the one I have difficulty imagining – perhaps something like this: catacombs echoing with laughter; museum images split down their seams; cross-eyed parrots shouting out abuse; virgins plummeting down poles of steel; bored children playing; sounds of thunder (always, no?); books in early drafts; nothing at all; the first form, split into infinite spheres; raw, open – needing nothing; whiskey breathed like water; water in ice and steam and rock and the ether itself; oh yes, of course, I almost forgot, the gods playing dice; and before, odd twists in matter, distortions that can only be called perfection itself; the dimensions we strive to grasp are only fantasies, leaving behind the thoughts that could be so foolish in the first place. I resort to chemical means – and why not, after all? There is no well defined arena, nor is there any real reason to do anything. Such, at least, is the nature of thought. Just give me a little decent wine, chickens, eggs, wheat, snow in the winter, sun in the summer, clay and glass jugs, no television to spoil the view, no radio to make my ears ring. Every word a lie, every lie bent in two, then three, then too many times to matter to anyone, although a car will be awarded to the person whose guess comes closest.

Strike me, beat me, whip me, peel the skin from my back and watch the crimson trickle. I don't care, never will, never have. There is nothing you can do to me anymore; I have buried my head in the rotten sands and will not pull it out until I am dead and forgotten. Send your condolences elsewhere, I don't need pity or caring hands. In another minute my breath will shudder and collapse onto itself. I take a shot of ether and drift into the sun. You will never know the half of what I have seen, which is, by the way, a claim every one of us can make. Of course nowadays, given similar viewing habits, there might be some exceptions to this rule. I gave my hat to my neighbor, my guitar to a friend, but left more behind, as usual. The work was just too much; I could not abandon myself so easily. The wonder of it all is that I believe my lies, my dreams, my cushions upon which rest well adjusted individuals. My friends are all mad, I think, and, if not mad, a little dull. Boredom is the greatest boon ever supplied mankind, for out of it comes surges of protoplasm and chemical impulses. Up and down are interesting only when taken together; the exciting and boring as well, of course. Today we have become a nation of drug addicts, pumping ourselves full of legal and illegal substances daily. I suppose some are at peace, but it a peace of fools as far as I am concerned. I do not care to hear feeble minded romances about the lost ways; today is plenty, and keeps my attention all too well. I run, now and then, when it gets to be too much, as a matter of fact.

I want to drown myself, or at least kill the worm that grinds its way through my brain with annoying regularity. I do not see why we should wander around grinning like idiots when a frown is more appropriate. I do not speak for anyone else than myself, of course. I suppose I have to repeat this point now and then, to remind myself of something hidden behind the corner of the room. There are giants arguing and throwing bricks at each other's heads; the story of the cyclops was and is not an allegory or metaphor. There is no beating around the bush; the bush is all there is sometimes, and sometimes not. I know I will lose the will to follow through on my efforts; I also know it does not matter, for someone else will take my place (whether it is me or someone else is irrelevant). I lost the fragile moment, the egg shell upon which everything was built. I spit, roughly estimating the distance between myself and the target, but missed. Please please my friends asked, but could come up with no reasons. It is all I can do to leave; the disappointment I felt was due only to false trust. There is absolutely no one; the true god is desire and has no name; the holy spirit breathes through naked eyes, leafing now and then through good pornography; Jesus collapses on the floor but receives the sacrament nevertheless through parched lips. I struggle with combinations distended like the womb of pregnancy, and take draft cards along just in case. It is in dialogue that I come to know these things, and in dialogue that I know there is nothing. I cannot help myself; the glow of the sun is faint, and not worth noting, except in this amended form. Liars run for cover, goes the general shout, but we all know better. Consistency is a farce; I thirst after blood and combat. The thrill of adventure is never empty or meaningless, although the adventures themselves are becoming somewhat ridiculous. There is nowhere to go, nothing to do, or say. Meaning of course that nothing matters any more.

Nothing is a large word, however. I turn it, first one way, then another: nothing is what matters. I like the sound of that, but know I suffer from delusions trained like seals to jump on command. Before the dawn were moments of despair treated as equals in a society that does not know the meaning of the word, although it does of course understand the uses it can be put to. Always practical this particular hand of god bends slightly at the wrist before offering us its favors. Please don't be angry; I offer everything at the wrong time, I know, but will descend graciously before sunset. I hate everyone, and wish them well despite myself. If I cannot contradict myself then who, I ask, can? There is nothing to be gained from idle conversation; beggars are tiresome and interfere with better thoughts. God, it is said, is love – but also many other things. It is foolish to concentrate on only one part when there is so much more to learn. I am so obsessed with the idea of perfection that it slips around on knees bent then broken in half. I know there is an excuse; that was never in question. I wish I could take every word and rip it limb from limb, but know only the odd strangler will find itself satisfied under my glass eye. Breathe goes the command then strike out angrily – sell books and records for money is what counts. Living the life of a saint is for fools who simply have no self respect. I do not see any reason to go on so foolishly; make new worlds and gods we are instructed but cling desperately to the old, like children to their favorite dolls. And that is exactly it: we are not different ever, before, after, in between, across – no matter how we look at it we see the same face always grinning back at us idiotically. Come, take my hand, I promise you heaven – what a farce, for it is there for one and all. Come, give me your eyes and I will let you see – when, I ask, will it cease? When will the garden sprout around my feet again? When will the last day burn out its lights and roll up the earth as if it were a giant wad of toilet paper?

There are no concerns worth fighting for. That at least must be the new call, for what concerns are worth fighting for? The time has passed, although we of course are totally enveloped in its fabric. That does not mean we should sit back in harmony and bliss, of course. Quite the contrary: when there is nothing left to fight for one must fight for fighting's sake alone. All actions must be reduced to their first elements, then allowed to spread until they take the entire universe in their sweaty hands. I know the machines will break, the molecules split; I also know there are those who will shout and scream that they cannot handle the pressure – that is good, because if everyone could life would get too boring. The beautiful arises in opposition to the ugly, remember. The sun replaces the dark then goes on about its business in a disinterested manner. At least stop and ask if all is as it seems, if nothing more. And there is so much more to do; so much more to say; I know there will be sorrow, pain, suffering. That is assumed from the first, and does not need to be repeated. I also know that there will be events unparalleled in history. That is the point, not the death and pain. Always we find our faces thrust into pits lined with decay and are asked to surrender our lives to the sorry state of mankind. We are buried under waves of pity, then expected to be thankful. It is not only my death I mourn, but the death of every friend and stranger caught in passionless tragedy.

Come, it is said, to the promised land. As if it were a vacation resort. Come, I say instead, to the future, where every shining light born lands with starry bursts. There is no place like home, after all. Come, then stay a while, looking back now and then, if you want, to the time back only the next moment. For my future is your now and is nowhere to be found. It rests in desperate moments but invites itself in to tea and coffee when it feels the need. Coming and going, it means nothing, of course, but for the habits we have formed over the years. I have them too, I admit, but not proudly. Broken over glass, split by heaven, drifted through and through by hoodlums and renegades, I take my destiny as it is, and know already, instantly, as it were, it is nothing as well, falling out of focus with irreverent laughter. Or at least give the matter some thought. I can wring promises like the neck of a chicken, tears out of passages too, but why, I ask, go to all the bother? I cannot reclaim the moments, the words, the sighs even, nor the breasts I long to kiss. I have nothing but my hands, and know I have been cheated. The joke is good, however. I appreciate humour as well as anyone else. Just give me a gun and I will shoot my brains out. I can laugh too you see. Ask for nothing to avoid disappointment; send for bargains and smile happily at the savings. Kill with abandon, then cross over the fields into the woods, then out into cities lined with worry. It doesn't matter where you go; the result in each case will be the same. Perhaps then it is better to do nothing, as was advised. The stress comes from the attempt to exceed yourself; I prefer to relax, knowing nothing will come of itself, especially good works. To save a child is to condemn to life; we act the part of god with reckless enthusiasm. And maybe that is also for the best; the role, after all, is fairly demanding, and requires a fair amount of energy. Whether dead or alive is irrelevant, at fault is the foundation, the blocks upon which crawl cancers of all sorts. I too am a cancer, feeding on the corpse of a dying world.

I do not want to get or give pity; I am happy with things as they are – that is the point I know you miss. I am not apathetic, nor consumed with lust. I cannot walk down the middle unless it shifts itself into my footsteps. All the words that I refrain in dead eyed imitations of christ join hands to choke me just that much more. If I see nothing I am happier that way, and want only to be left alone, to snivel, wallow, grasp and break at once. The illusion was all I was given, and so I suffer no great loss when it goes. Come early, late, as you prefer, it will make no difference since you are already here. Notes for futures are nice, but only diversions. The fact of the matter is a debt that is unparalleled in the history of the world, making our special little brink infinitely more shaky than it was before the great depression (an event that will be re-named in the near future). Phantom kisses are all I offer, words are alright but the need has passed for another story. Greed is my mother; silence my father; suffering my aunt; lust my nearest relative by far. I am well trained in the ways of modernity and so have little use for the classics, although they can be entertaining at times. There is no need to look for history repeating itself when there is nothing but history at our hands, in amounts unimaginable. Looking ahead is my favorite pastime, but also the thing I hate the most.

There are moments when the passions boil over into pools of death. The death quivers then breathes, multiplying quickly. This is how all cancers and viruses work, and is also the only true source of harmony. Please do not send me flowers; the cost is a waste, and will do me no good. Let the dead lie, and worry about yourself instead. There is no good advice, because the only words anyone ever hears is what they already know. We are born with fixed little brains programmed to learn whatever it is they are going to learn, in one way or another. If we die others will follow, then the natural order will come to rest in arms of gold. Only in the moment of extreme unbalance can I contemplate for even a moment creation in its raw form. There is no glamour, however, only an unrewarded grind. I am a martyr as well, as you can see. I occupy each niche previously kept for the dead and buried. My life is a sacrifice to long dead gods; my dreams are hollow imitations of the vatican, jerusalem, and mecca all rolled into one. I dance on the graves of the dead word of god; give me a quarter and I will place a toll free call to hell. The battle is over, the frost has melted, the idea itself is worthless. I know tonite there will be no rest.

Cards will be marked and sent back, unopened. Make no excuses. follow no leaders, crawl on your own bloody stumps if that is what's called for. Whatever you do never whine, nor plead fragility, nor insanity. Keep track of your ego, send gifts in unmarked bills, give to the poor if you can afford it. There are plenty of rules, so go quietly before giving up. If you can find no set to feel comfortable in, leave. That is what I do, and I seldom have regrets. You are nowhere, so of course cannot get lost. I am already lost, which is why I am talking. In the forest there is nothing although that is absurd, there being everything. I stay lost, wandering in and out of I never know where; perhaps; after all there is nowhere, which would at the very least be consistent. Talking nothing out of nowhere to no one. That is, in several words, the image of perfection. And so I am perfect in this way, if none other. Lost and lonely, wanderer jumping at his shadow, quoting works I have never even seen. I must keep in touch, strain the lines, free the hawsers. The sea beckons but the romance is gone, or has been replaced with well armed pirates in the straits of indonesia. I am not one to seek death for the sake of a thrill. This alone separates me from those I find I have some respect for. I want happiness, of course, but know if I make even one false move towards it I will be betrayed by a thousand judases. My smiles are false, torn, absurd like the face of a clown. My tears are non-existent; across my face twitch fibers and veins. Please do not call for help – the time has passed. I have given my all and wait now to collect my pay. For it is money that will buy my happiness. If I live or die I cannot change this simple equation. Life rolls, whether it is condemned or not. Made servile we flake apart at the seams, made after the image of god man is still-born. There is nothing more to say on the matter.

I have the utmost faith in all things that cannot be known. I rest and play in such fields as have never been imagined before. Which means, of course, my eyes are sunken and black, my hands twitch and shake nervously, a tick plays with the side of my face. All other moments are of no interest to me. Seek and ye shall find, the good book said, but mentioned nothing about the price. Good sales tactics, I suppose – even then they had some idea about how to move the product. I delight in the sound of gold; the world will never decay or rust away, that much at least I am sure of. Everything is as immutable, from the first element to the last. Even the most recent additions can be counted on for as long as they can hold onto their extra components. Heat. Reaction. Action. Reaction. From the first to the last there fall spaces and cracks and chiseled features too narrow to fit through the eye of the needle, and not afraid to advertise the fact.