Touch The Endings, Hold Them Dear

DSC_0023

Self-righteous and profane we tear up the streets with the force of Love… or is it just Cacophany… or just raw and naked Lust, that primal mud in which we swim and suck, fondle and fuck, until our eyes roll back inside our minds.  This bewitchment that drives us into slander and insanity, where every friend is now an enemy, and all tongues suffer only to taste each other’s organs and selves.

After driving recklessly for a few hours we abandoned the car inside the pet shop, crashing through the main window into a haze of sawdust and straw.  Clambering from the wreckage, we stand by the ruins smoking a pair of cigarettes and encouraging the more timid animals to Get Out There and Be Free.  We say quiet prayers that nothing will be eaten, nothing will die.  She whips her arms around like a ferris wheel, as parakeets fly, imploring this dank world to be free.  Be freeeeeee!  BE FREEEEEEEE!  I stamp into her spinning top path and grab her shoulders.  BE FREEEEEE I scream into her face and she eats my tongue without spilling a drop of my blood.

We take each others hands and disappear under the dark archways and into the backstreets, shelter of the angels.  People might call them junkies, winos, whores, but we hear their laughter and we smell their dead flesh as it drops from the bone to blossom and seethe and spread as black tar on the cracked paving slabs.  We see them falling like autumn flowers, infesting concrete cancer with societal guilt… and there is nothing anyone can do to stop us.  Behind the terraces Lady B, in her plaid skirt, fucks a priest who demands to be called Father.  There is no salvation from the damned, it’s just them and us who choose to melt into the streets to grow society anew – without guilt, without principle, without malice.

One day, I want to take a chainsaw to the tree bark that grows under her skin until the dust flies.  Resting under the old railway we smoke from light bulbs and cut our foreheads open until we see the knits of our skulls.  She is autumn to me – straggled and terracotta, wise and damp.  Above us we can hear unfamilar cries mingling with the usual circus; the melodies of the fallen who still sing even as the ground absorbs them into a stain, and the gentle cackling of freed tropical birds.

 

 

4 comments on “Touch The Endings, Hold Them Dear

  1. Kristiana says:

    Reblogged this on FVR Publishing and commented:
    Jimmi does the darkness, justice ❤

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s