Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 2, 2004 Dark Poetic Prose

03-02-04 tuesday 8:15pm brick NJ

there's an avalanche tumbling down my back. a tidal wave in my gut. and my head's a tornado. if you're going to complain at least make it creative. if you're going to hurt anyway, may as well make it into something productive.

i tried to pry my happiness out of yesterday's cold dead hands. but they buried her so fast. i tried to rob the grave, but they buried her so deep. so instead i just wrote the epitath for her stone. "it never ends because it never began".

the bottom of the bottle tastes just like a kiss that's gone on too long. all full of saliva and chapped lips. and you can't resist openinig your eyes in the middle because you've lost all your interest in the event.

i never used to drink the bottom. used to pour it down the drain. cuz it used to taste like piss. but now it tastes like old tired kisses. you may be bored with them. but you still have to let them finish.

i never used to care about anyone other than myself. maybe i still don't. how would anyone even know? i never used to need a reason not to drink, but now i do and i can't think of a single one.

building hours brick by brick. these confessions the mortar. this life the architect. it's an ugly, lopsided building. it's a castle made entirely of dungeons. it's a moat without a drawbridge.

old music never sounded so new as when your past was the only version of yourself that ever didn't hate. and it's strangely unsettling to think back upon that person and feel as if you're unable to recognize them. it almost feels as if i have no past. that those memories are someone else's. that i was born out one of these bottles after that other girl i think i remember drowned inside them.

03-02-04 tuesday 9:40pm brick NJ

holding breathes like babies. weak necks. soft heads. rocking minutes like infants. lullabying them. til they might sleep again. leave my mind peaceful. should they evver. would they let.

creeping deaths like 80's metal music. frantic momentum. errratic concepts. worshipped briefly, then forgotten. and angry about that. a much truer anger than the kind they tried to depict with their cliched lyrics.

smacking deaths like the crisp crack of fast fingers on devasted cheeks. the sound. the pop of elemental contact. disgust. violence. the action and the reaction to it. and red handprints on tender flesh. smack me again because i'm still asking those same questions. dent me again because this landscape is still flat.

if i could remember. if i really could. like i used to. when memory came gently floating in like a blizzard that began with just a single lonesome snowflake and suddenly had smothered everytihing. if i could remember like that then i could be that person again. but i can't. it's just a dirty mirror with a fuzzy reflection. it's a monsoon of loneliness beating weak islands. i would remember if i could, but i just can't. i try to remember then, but the connection is broken.

alone is all that i know now. all that i can recall as i swim these oceans i've created to drown myself in.