We are stopsigns in the darkness, lit by fluorescence visible if the headlights of cars streaming by fall on our skin, in the lime light, ghastly stories of broken spirits laughing at forevers. They chase the eternal twilight and we wait by God’s door, contemplating falls off terraces and admiring phenyl bottles that froth on the tongue and leave ghosts inside you.
Chained to reality with a thirst that cuts into the senselessness, we watch the carousel spin, and spin with the gleeful laughter of tomorrow’s children. Our childhood melted icelollies that drip down our fingers and get soaked into the sand in mute despair. Hundreds of life lost every second, while you stretch inside your own head in a loop of infinity. Proportions break off your skin, heavy chunks of your heart that lay in gutters where you had tossed them to run lighter, faster, racing towards an evanescent horizon of victory. The words keep coming, but are restricted at the tongue, a checkpoint on the doorway into hell where they admit you if your soul is indeed bitter,
what about us though? The ones who are made up in patches of thoughts stolen from those they loved, blurred into a rainbow of dreary grays and orange candies made of cheap artificial sweetners.
The monsters hide, bursting from our backs in multicolored neon signs, Janus, blinking at empty parking lots, tossing a key from left to right. Endings merge into beginnings till all the days are the same shade of misplaced jubiliance, the one that tastes like sunlight trapped in a bottle.
The flood keeps on coming, in calming waves of caresses that remind you of distance between two hearts riddled with air-lines and mobile networks, unwinding spool after spool of silken threads. The worms chewing and chewing in the mulberry leaves of your mind, and the end is a barren desert spread with fabric that traps flies. Crumpled in a corner, heavy with the taste of nothing that has happened or will happen again, till the future is the past with rust tipping the top of your tastebuds.
Youth bursts through your limbs, a caged bird that rejects glowing in the chimeria of pigeon coops of abysmal voices which swing into guitar tunes on corn-gnarled fingers slipping into your heart, sinking into your skin where you trap them forever. Into creaks of movable chairs, thin fingers on denim thighs , faces that wear masks to sleep behind which cowering monsters hide, whimpering into twilight while wolves howl bucking, trapped the chewy bubblrgum of a bookstore mind.
Alcohol boobytrapped to jump at you, to bring you back to your senses, you beg and beg till the fool is upside down, hanging by his ankle and you study the wonderful spiral of thoughts returning to their graves. The hatreds spills, boiling out with the delicate milk tea with the happiness I carry in a shroud dragging in the dust like Hector’s tired body.
The keys on my keyboard come undone, into winter summer and silk they wear dressed and parade around the halls, the words stuck and stuck because typewriters dont have backspaces and I, I in my dramatic moments of self-services to the world have backspaced entire novels in my head.
No other companion can desert the pen the way the paper did when it turned heavy, puply in my hands. My heart complete almost with the broken bottles and marble slabs on empty terraces, with the water pouring over my head and onto letters written with feverish haze. The truth is hazy, pigeon chested, sourly with misshapen heads of nightmares and boils that leave sores in your eyes that weep and weep. You match the length of your scars and the depth of your heart when you meet the others of your kind, floating in the tub connected by the eternal madness that is the mark of the unexpressed.
In that freedom of fantasy when your own words begin to cross into into red whiplines on gimp buttocks, green papers leaking glow worms that sit on my nose. Even in the death of happenstance coincidence the wonder of carbon, and oxygen forming endless chains they call man. Dust in elaborate dances of corsets, petticoats, numbers, theology, rules only made to confrom, chicken wires in which you are trapped in a slaughter-house scarecrow dance.
Briefly you wake, before the words tilt out, flowing, gurgling, stretching and unfurling into amplified prayers of salvation that is a figment of the common thought. Beat, beat, the unbearable heat of jazz on your lips with popstars scaling sopranos, orchestras reaching electronic cresendos in disco theques. The union of the spirit of the listless youth that is snaking out of flimsy cages which pour into your head, honey that sticks to your hair making honeycombs and queen bees where there used to be hipster dreams of world-famous illusionists.
We are magic tricks born out of a deed kept secret behind censors, covering, coveting everything but the end that will tell us to stop dancing into the moonlight with hedonistic limbs and earn and not live, while the fabric of our innocence cracks.
The sides of the plate veined with riddles of disuse, eating out of cardboard boxes with spoons, forks and delicate knives, the curry mixing with the sushi, the dimsums and fries of culture painted into our globalised laughter.
In the eternity of indiscrimminate youth, the gluttunous mouths yearning for the world which isnt measured with invisible vaults and magic tricks of passlocked money codes. We are all Frank Abergnales, encashing fake PanAm cheques of reality, inside our heads, imaginary friends giggling giggling in muted glee.