Dark Poetry Prose Poetry March 6, 2005 Dark Poetic Prose

03-06-05 9:21pm sunday

i'm not immune to happiness. i've often been infected.

i'm not a victim of sorrow. no. it's only a side effect of fighting the fever. the virus. they breathe their happiness into your lungs and then leave you alone with the parasite.

i'm not immune to its effects. i'm very much susceptible. it spreads through my system so rapid. a plague of the heart. devastating euphoria followed by intoxicating loneliness.

i'm not a proponent of sadness. i just know it so well. that fevered symptom of want denied. infected with happiness and no one to share it with. it turns on its host. parasite that it is.

i'm not immune to happiness. if anything i'm more susceptible to it than most. the tiniest spore multiplies exponentially beneath my skin. fills my veins with a desire so great that nothing can cure it.

9:37pm sunday 03-06-05

purple songs in repetition. lavender choruses twirling china bridges in a dance of frailty and loss.

listening goats chew the cans. thinking fingers. mewing laughs.

listening eyes watch the chest. as it swells and ebbs with the subtle act of breathing. sustaining the life it has been assigned. and i remember that most of all. the sound. the movement. of life creating itself inside of them.

that primitive song. that hypnotic rhythm. lay your ear to your lover's chest and listen. hear them.

for how little i've ever known how to live, i understood it when i heard it happening from inside someone i wished i could've always been with.

i miss that song. my heart dancing with it. i miss that song eager hearts thump out insistent. my heart's yet to dance since the last time i was able to hear it.

10:13pm 03-06-05 sunday

trampling the night in boots made of lies. bought from both strangers and friends.

i expect people to lie. but not without reason.

i accept that people lie. but not without hesitation.

stern memories scold the weaker ones. they stream like smoke from ashtray lives. sucking down their cancers. it's all a matter of perspective. what's your current thirst? whatever means it takes to quench it.

riding disappointment like a surfboard over angry waves. clinging despearately to that ability to ride the pain.

you meet yourself sometime after you've let the others go. you meet yourself there at that tacky mall where feelings go to shop for new outfits to wear. better ways to entice. and you stand there in front of that distorted clothing store mirror in the softer regions of your heart trying to discern if the reflection you see is real or if it's just salesmanship.

there's no way to know for sure until you take it home with you. wear it in the real world. away from all those lying mirrors and hungry cash registers.

take it home with you. put it on.

how does it look now?

10:56pm sunday 03-06-05

your only answer to the silence. more of the same. digging life with a sharp shovel. you're only answer to life's demands is to tend to your grave.

there's nothing worth living for. this i know. you can love, but it will bretray you. you can breed little effigies of yourselves. but time will still laugh at you as it looks down upon. god will still exist only in your narcisstic delusions of how important human beings are.

my only answer to the silence as it questions is that i didn't create the world. i just fell into. and it created me. all those moments. all those interactions sprawling shakey bridges across disease infested rivers deep below the surface of the encounters people are apt to share.

we come. we go. we absorb ourselves in the process of becoming attached to and later letting go.

there's no reason to want and still every temptation to. as we wade through the shallower end of the pool. i find myself wanting to go under. charmed by the easy currents. wanting so much to know what it's like to be them.