Wednesday, October 29, 2003

In memorium.

Mood: Cold.
Music: REM-Half a World Away

The darkness is all around. It envelops like a closing fist.

His eyes are closed tightly, coiled on his head in thick concetration.

Mosquitoes come, suck your blood
whispers
like love.
Mosquitoes come
suck your blood

He is a murderer. His leather seats dash his car like a cozy sofa. The dashboard is litten up in a neon fizz.

And he is a murderer.

He sits with his head going nowhere, his thoughts reoccuring to flashes and sparks, all litten up but just there, like his dashboard. Like his entire life.

Inside his mind the metal messenger of death is ringing. And he picks it up. A little clang and a little clatter.

Hello...

Little deathbirds whisper in his head, the hollowed-out skulls of memories.

In his mind he can see the messenger of death in his hands, he can see himself speaking to it, telling it all he wants. All he loves. All he hates. And the messenger smiles, he can see it as he hears it. A small uplift of small cheeks, a big grin, a qauvering grin, like a beating heart.

In his mind he can see the wound seeping into him, like acid poison, like crumbling, skipping stairs, falling one by one in an endless depth. He can see it taint and bleed and spasm and kill. He can taste the smell of gunpowdered wishes, like snow falling endlessly and helplessly and scentlessly in its dead, flittering white. He can see white covering him, like a coat, and blackness right on his eyes, his beady, empty eyes. He can feel splattering, mangling wishes and dreams and brainmatter strewn about, a murderer's art, a picture only blood could paint and blood could finger.

Bang

He can hear the bang in his mind. He can hear little voices, a small choir of whores, telling him to stop, to end, to resist, to cease. To not give up. The whores were empty hearts, red bloodholes in his mind, faded kisses that nourished nothing, only cold skin. They were white as paper, thin as ribs. Little bases that gave his face a head. Little cements that glooped in an endless loop, so frantically, so quickly. And they were all drying, all melting, and all tears as they stood around and moped and sulked by a now filled piece of Earth. By a murder's rug, and his stone home.

The hate that rises through the pavements. The little cats that are as feline as love. The little slips of paper of a torn up test grade, buried forever in a trash can. A bottle of soda smeared with fingerprints, small, tedious fingerprints. A little boy with a little heart and a little life doing handstands in the rain, his hands wet with enthusiasm. A bigger boy, tall as the moon, short as the ground. But gravity always wins.

But gravity always wins...

Between his eyes I see his brain, a silent tape in the open breeze. Spinning like a pinball in a machine fed too many quarters and too little love. Spinning like a twirling, spasming girl kissing and wooing with endless amority. I see a tape unraveling like a red carpet on a short stair that ends as soon as it begins. I see a tape playing with its sound dying, its wheels overused, overknown, overneeded.

I hear a man in the classroom singing, "Lalalalalala listen to yourself, go on and on as if you spoke to someone else." I see flashes, endless lightbulbs burning out and preparing to be dead and gone forever and ever. I see metal in the cold night, dancing on his closed eyes, dancing with his brain in a slow dance that never ends only when it stops.

He thinks of all the people in life. He looks at them like knives, too sharp and growing too dull, one day to be broken forever. Tears touch his mind like a lost ocean, but he pushes them back, he pushes them back in a wave of water, a wave that will cover everything in its hands.

He grabs the messenger of death for real this time. He winces in anguish, in some last plea, in some last wish, some last dream, some last could have been. He pauses for a moment longer, like a sloth, slowly, coldly. Movies are playing in his head, movies just as powerful and moving as any other. Memories face him and touch him and grasp him like an old man too dead to know what he's doing.

And then he puts the metal messenger to his head. He places his finger over the trigger like a teacher first grabbing chalk, first teaching. His finger lays on the little slab of the trigger, uncertain and capable of its potentials. Uncertain and capable potentials that will kill other uncertain and capable potentials. Like a sigh that turns to a scream, bloodcurdling and cold as hell.

With a twitch of his brain his muscles move the trigger back forcefully with his finger. Little shadows dance and recede. Little memories breathe one last breath then cough and die. Hands move and wiggle for the last time. A face moves and licks and breathes for the last moments and fades to just another rag doll, just another doll that was stuffed and nothing and dead.

Bang

The bang is sudden. Sudden like a wrenching, decayed ghost appearing and showing its face. The red is all over the car, the bullet a cannibal to its own end. The murderer a murderer to his own end. The blood is all over; it is all over his face, all over his hands, all over the ground. A spaghetti of brain matter paints the leather seats, brain matter that once was. That once had a being. That once danced like a neon sign.

He squirms for a while longer. Then there is nothing. Nothing but a lone car in a lone road with its litten dashboard, just sitting.

A few days later, snow fell, a confetti parade for the devil. A purgatorial white that scattered and clawed in a gnawing cold, cutting the air with a dead breeze. It fell like one last sneeze, showering the world in the white of bone, in the purging color of white.

The snow ate at us all, chewing and munching on us. All of us food that hasn't died. All of us paralyzed.
Comments (2)