Friday, August 1, 2008
phantoms
Misery loves its company. Jealousy is misery. Jealous of a phantom object versus phantom abject and ruined. Soul-less grains tick through glass, tick tick tick. Absent-mindedness is rude. The act ain’t cute anymore, honey. Phantoms over flesh. The act turns deadly about 23:00 GMT. Victory slopes meet coarse and jagged finish lines; rocks of burden. Why must I pry your mouth open with metal? Why must I suffer your pixilated secrets? Why am I forever judged by the Great Phantom Jury; my seat compiled rocks afore their home-sewn pillows, spindled personally from your gold. Your hand. Your hand touches mine sometimes but sometimes they pass through each other. What is so wrong with me? What is so wrong with me that I cannot fill these gaps, that phantoms are given bits and pieces and bits and pieces might seem silly to you but those bits and pieces are mine they have been and always will be chipped from my sides and it is the slowest death to ever envelope a heart. This is what you do to me, indefinitely.
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1 comment:
Very tuned in to yourself here while streaming the consciousness, seeming to admit faults while being honest about the other's. Lines 6, 10, and 17 have hints of things I remember writing about once myself. Threads of life, whether rock, sand, or fiber. All are contained in our travels within and abroad. I very much like it, phantom through and through.
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