February 7, 2012

• It is very late at night, and some wait for the new day. I listen to classical music, all the bassoon parts, because I have heard them for almost 45 years, and along the Ohio only the rare barge passes now as the cars along the Parkway have driven themselves home to keep some drunk passenger from killing themselves or not others, for the bars close for a time, not enough time, for some will not see the light of day as a drunken and aching head thinks it wants a drink upon awakening. Their heads feel like marbles crushed within a vice, but they cannot say, “Goodmorning,” to the new world having not let the old ridivulous one clear from their veins.

  I could never drink a lot for long, because I would be like a person poisoned, head over the toilet, praying for ease from the pain, thinking how bourbon stunk the second time around and hating a ceiling that I could not tell from the floor, the twirling, swirling, the lost, depraved stupid body that had to purge itself of the awful taste and the smell which the night before had seemed like an awakening.

  Oh my souls, my beautiful souls; Why must you stick needles in your beautiful veins, and does the white singing of your nose make you a king or a queeen as you snort poison from The Devil Prince, or The She Monster that disguised herself as a friend until she wanted to jump your bones and make you a fool with no heaven, no hell, just the empty can of another night when you could sit at the bar, or lie in the ground getting acquainted with the dirt that would be your life’s end, your body picked over by the last hungry worm.

  What became so horrible that we had to kill children, to destroy our families, to pretend that we were without when all around us knew we had more than we ought. They are there you fools! Can’t you see them setting their babies on fire, burning the home around them, leaving the spouse in an unmarked grave. Can’t you see them, The Devils, The Witches, practicing under the dark moon to destroy beauty, and they waited for you most of all, because your eyes could portray beauty. That a wary hear of stone would be stollen from the night, cut from your chest, laid bare on the table, for you became one of them and needed a heart no more. Can’t you see them? The Devils, they are all in disguises and think their brilliance will show them the key to the other world when the earth must be reborn, but I can see them; I can hear them, and I have heard them cry; Oh God the Demons cried when they are cast into hell, and no one can catch them, No one can give them back their years; No One; Can’t you see.

  I see them with Michaelangelo, and they are cast away the lot of them, and they are in the forever freefall, and they are the fire, the flame, the misery, the dark, the imprisoned in wretched places. It all began with sweet drinks, little puffs of smoke, a cracle from a pipe, and the burn on the nose. Oh watch for them; Please watch for them, and be warned, for the whispers in their ears will sound like sweet words.

  See them; Can’t you, or will you become the one that feels that little tremble just thinking about the places to bitter to go; So Hear them; Please hear them! They are between here and home, and one colapsed like a ragdoll between your legs, because she had you; Your heard was over the toilet bowl; She cleaned you; Listen, for she is cleaning you with a smirk; She has you, and you have it the disease which eats at your flesh and bone, all that is left, only now you will not listen; For if you heard; Then you would know that you are dancing on the devil’s back, and children are their token, and no one wants you near their own; For you have joined in The Devil;s Dance.

  Author of, “Pinkhoneysuckle,” Amazon, Create Space, Kindle Ready, and other Independent Dealers

  • 2:42 am
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