Dark Poetry Prose Poetry November 29, 2003 Dark Poetic Prose

11-29-03 saturday 11pm brick NJ

i wanted to say something while this high still permits me to write. it's hard to capture that space between sober and stoned that allows the feelings to breathe. fleeting are these moments of life that we objectify. taking memories like pictures. painting happiness like portraits. to gaze upon when there's no inspiration left.

i don't know what to do with this now. to hate. to neglect. to delete it manually like a corrupted file. is it corrupt or just written in an incompatible format. i can scan the code, but not the picture that it emulates. i can let this mood take me away from all this. since that is its only intent. just as second hands on clocks only seek to count another minute. sad sad hearts only tally the reasons that they are.

i wanted to say, but i've yet to decide what it is that should be spoken. it seems there's nothing left of what once filled these lives with its presense. it feels like the sun has set and refuses to rise again. like watching the world go by in slow motion as you pedal slowly through it. the scenery is something worth seeing. but myself moving among it. i am disconnected. not at all a part of it. as i move through and steal the sights i realize just how distant. how detached. that every taste of flesh only teases with a satisfaction that cannot be had. that every bite i chew upon is not the meat, but the grisel left after someone else has had their meal. i'm just a side dish. just the lumpy mashed poatatoes that lay on the plate unaffecteed and ineffectual. just the sad side show to what they actually want.

i had meant to say. and i tried to. but there's so little time to get it done between the beginning of the buzz and the submission to the abuse. and if you care what it might be. what it is right now. i guess you'll have to ask me when the sun is sharp in the sky and all my defenses are still waiting on the cushion of night.

evil has heros too. no one ever thinks about it. but i heard it and was stunned. evil has heros just as good does. just like lovers become friends. and loves become enemies. just like the doomed can look so promising until the moment that it touches your dream. and like splitting an atom. the truth breaks it open like a bomb. if anything is left living after the fact. it most liekly wishes that it hadn't. if there is any thing left besides ashses and carcass, they most likely just think about how the dead are the lucky ones. and wonder and hate the fact that they have survived.