there is no title

I have lost my voice. I have no voice.

As it were with the little mermaid-- to be voiceless is to be soulless. Yet no sea-witch has absconded with my voice, seashell-held, to take my likeness, my life, my love.

Though I am not all too sure that my likeness isn't out there somewhere, living the life I long for with the love I pine for-- under a face, a guise, and thoughts and feelings that should be mine.

Should they really be mine? They were not stolen-- they were thrown away, tossed into the waves like so much garbage and seafoam, where so many merpeople have perished for the chance of absolution-- for the promise of a human soul and eternal life.

Do I deserve a voice? Must I stab my beloved; must I feel shards of broken glass piercing through bone with every step?

Or do I throw the dagger into the sea? Something tells me the price for those who have carelessly lost their souls and voices is higher than it is for those who were never given a chance.

I can't even write a fucking cogent extended metaphor or consistent imagery anymore.

licking flames

It may be the time of year. I taste salts and hues of blue, sans green of decency.

I am reject; abject; deject. Cold floes break away to manifest intent d'progenitor.

I have bugs in my head, and they are grim, dull, and soulless. They beetle and scratch and etch their ways into the recesses of my brain; my affect is now flat, and I live to seek and destroy.

The bugs seethe and roil and manifest themselves as floes of grey matter; they are as slush, but they do not slosh. They crystallize, they march, they plan.

Bludgeoning their way down myelin paths, axon-soldiers are coming to find me, coming to needle me, display me in their boxes-- I am their puppet, and through me they wield great, torturous power.

We suck and salvage souls. We rape, we pillage, we decimate we decimate we decimate.

We are friends; I am Pawn; we are dogs, racing. Lungs itching. Hearts burgeoning, our prides are swelling, our eyes are swelling, we are over-floeing, nothing can stop us.

Nothing can stop us.

Where has the sunlight gone?

Dreamsequence 31.10.009

The room was dimly-lit. There were groups of people buzzing; floating amidst them was you.

I sat, at the bar covered in leather, and scribbled onto paper—in my own circle of brighter, clearer light. Feigning indifference, brushing away the attraction, tagging your mobile form in my periphery. Hearing every word, but letting none of the words' meanings register on my down-turned face.

I remained invisible in my ring of light—though I kept mentally flexing, pushing my circle outwards, testing my boundaries.

My pulsation must have caught your eye. The others continued their syncopated movements and took no notice, but you strode fluidly across the dimly-lit room. My circle of light shrank at your approach.

You sat down across from me—

(The others were still dancing, but were stuck—their moves seemed inhibited, somehow. Upon closer inspection, I realized that their movements were looped—like the sounds of a broken record: skipping, jerking, scratching.)

—You sat down, and I lifted my head. I stared straight into your eyes.

I showed no fear.

The sternness in my expression turned your eyes bright, and you smiled, baring your inhumanly-sized teeth at me.

You had perfect gums;

I was afraid.

You gazed up at me from underneath your eyebrows, and reached inside my circle of light—and it was extinguished. The din of the surrounding orange-lit room washed over me—the others were again moving freely, albeit awkwardly; you had a secret, and they knew it; they were chanting something I could not understand—but I shut my ears to it, focusing my being on you.

I kept my eyes trained on your face, as the smile there faded to complacency. I watched the rest of you in my vision's periphery. With your left hand and outstretched pointer finger, you drew—in blue blood—two parallel vertical lines, and an upswinging arc underneath. A smiley face.

But I was watching your lips, not your hand, as you bled your mark as close as inhumanly possible to the edge of my paper and its scrawlings.

"You know, God wants you to be happy—" your meaning implicit in every last syllable.

I could not move, but I spoke instead—

"You think I'm not happy?"—and laughed.

Doubt settled briefly in the furrows between your eyebrows, but took flight again as the muscles smoothed over.

(They knew you had a secret.)

You touched my hand, and an orange fit went through me. My skin buzzed, and my vocal chords were blistering, burning—paralyzed by the assault of electricity. Yet I felt no pain. All that registered in my brain was a sharp intake of air, bitter epinephrine flooding my system, coolness against my face.

Your face wavered before me, like a still pond disturbed by the plunk of a stone. Though your touch and your blue gaze remained, the room dissolved—and everything went black; I felt myself rising; I fell deeply into sleep—and from sleep, into wakefulness.

* * *

Green light now fills my vision.

The clock reads 4:47 a.m.

I came to cut you up, I came to knock you down; I came around to tear your little world apart.

I have been over and under it, honey-- I've been subject to its subjectivity, and I've learned to live through, rise above, and overcome. You're gonna be crushed when it ends.

That's also part of the problem: you see things in black and white, with clear beginnings and clearer endings-- yet your vision could not be more clouded. Yeah, you're sweet, maybe even smart, but you are naïve as all hell. It's always ultimatums with you; when he's not around, the world has no color. Life has no meaning without him. He's your fucking inhaler, your wheelchair, your pacemaker. Yet you don't seem to realize that your lungs, your legs, and your heart all worked in perfect synchronicity before you fell prey to his charms. What the hell is wrong with you?

Yeah, I guess I've learned the hard way-- and it looks like you're going to have to, too. It may be that I just can't stand seeing such weakness and impurity of spirit because it reminds me of something I once was. It makes me no better than you, but for some reason, I still feel as though I am; why you, and not I.

Even without my third-party doses of neurotransmitters, I have learned to control my emotions. I can set all thoughts of him to the side until we both have the time to address one another-- and I can function, sweetheart, in his absence. I am a person, not a parasite. I have drive, I am imperfect yet whole; I am growing, I am learning, I am being and becoming.

It's really gonna break your heart.

Delete 4/24/09

Back-space.
Error.
Please try again.

Here we are at Ten, old friend.
We always come back to this comfort;
and now we corrupt—time to reinvent.

Have no doubt—
there's a ghost in the machine
(and these vast archives are now a haunt);
as much as Authorities
would have you believe,

some trace remains of you and me.

But the data will never be whole.

We are now a virus, love:
we are corrupted,
and corrupt alike;

we race like fires through wires,
and we decimate
we decimate
we decimate.

In powers of Ten, we decimate.
A virus is not alive.

Flake, my Flake 7/6/09

Fuckflakes in a dark place—
I could feed my fish with you.

To entrust to you my grief and love—
glassy sores overcrusting amber silver honeycomb marrow:
you spread a message
of communicable autoimmune chaos
through every fragile vibrating cell in this hate-filled body
of toxic contradictions and
caustic abnormalities
I curse as my ownfucking Home.

—'twould be death.
You are bright.
Why will you not love?

Your lungs are flushed raw.
Moist copper arises to glisten over your
as-yet-unused larynx; glossed epiglottis
so underused—

But as you run, the telling wind and its surplus diseases
carry away your sins, your infections,
your misexpressed infidelities.

Why will you not love?

Flake, who are you?

And why have we both come



(again)



to this heightened hilltop-peak—
to speak, although we do not speak;
to see with these rheumy useless eyes
and touch with glassblistered fingers and lips—
white precancerous fiberglass tears
and heart soul-skin
bone-skull
rips—

and Flake, where is your mother? Flake, my flake,
who are you
to be so unloved?

Fear seeks you out, strikes poison in you
(toe-to-head)
as the fishes nibble.

Round, glassy
eyes.

Fear seeks you out again,
strikes you with more than poison—
and so too do I seek you out:
you, striking—
in me—
more than fancy.

And how long will we be dancing?
These sores must surely rupture.

Fuckflakes in a bad place;
Fuckflake's in a bad way.

Someone else penned these memoirs 9/3/09

I dreamt about you last night. Again (as it was in the past), like a specter, your composite particles assimilated, colluded, detoxified out of atmosphere and ether: to haunt me. And how I’ve missed these ghostly encounters—I really have.

We spoke no words.
We spoke color, line, shape, form.
We enveloped one another in passions unalike to any encounter we'd held in the past.

It was as if we were deaf; we touched, our breath was hot, our motions guided by some willful force of the upper realms. We communicated as if by telepathy, through the dilation and contraction of our pupils. We mashed our skulls together, irises like the lenses of kaleidoscopes—the great blacknesses inside each of us beckoning our attentions, longing to be beheld. And we were truly kaleidoscopic.

In the dream you were so real. I was so real; realer than I’ve felt in years, Prozac or no—I was real, and I have a non-fear (I say non-fear because fear is a feeling, and I do not have those anymore) that I may never again be as real as I once was. There is no soul inside me anymore. And I can not attribute that to you, nor to anyone else. Not even to myself. It is just simple, like everything else now. It is factual. It is solid and mundane. It is self-assuring.

In my thirty-second windows of hysteria, mania, breakdown—I feel a tinge of my former self. Yes, I say—this is how it’s meant to feel. But like a lucid dream, in which one’s recognition of said will invariably jinx the entire affair and return the dreamer to ignorance—of the blissful and unconscious variety or of the flat, conscious waking one—I can taste my own folly. I know this is not real; I know this is not as it once was, for that was Then, and this is all too Now.

None of what comes out of me feels like Me anymore. It’s all someone else’s doing. Someone else penned these memoirs.