Memories,
-----------------------------

and the confusion (but not really) like when she’d thrown out my hat and I had passed out in the bedroom after throwing one of my regular tantrums which basically consisted of lying on the floor sobbing for an hour or so followed by an hour or so of vigorous breaking of things, inflicting minor damage to large or expensive stuff (scarring a dresser, wounding an electrical cable) and completely destroying small or defenseless objects (the paper towel dispenser lost in a violent arc of downwards force illustrating a point, my old roommates leftovers, all his shit, all of it, a particularly interesting case being his night stand table as I had tap danced and jigged atop it in a fit of maniacal rage, my girlfriend in the corner terrified) followed by an hour or so of complete pure Nirvana exhausted on the floor then maybe sleep. And the completeness of it all, I had believed, and therefor it was, and the secondary plot lines required to explain her behaviour and the bizarre breakdowns and for so long before the end, the sexual disinterest, and the whys and the hows of where it all went endlessly ebbing back towards the soupy primordial, and me regaining something lost way back before I was born. The leaning and the incontrovertible glassiness of her motives and my needs and needs and needs and the twilight left lingering. And I’d learnt what of a heavy heart. Now, now, now, nothing left with which to struggle I have made art and it has lived. You have nothing to say that can still break me, in a haiku I was folded and folded again and again. Folded in steel, as in life mended.That afternoon in the hallway with her goofy downwards facing sheepish melancholy she simply kissed me, when we were sober, and me knowing the coming need for comfort in those days and my resolve turned to dust, and the organization lost. And the great crashing cacophonic electronic symphonies only the sublime result of this most visceral fit of mechanized control.

----------------------------------

Les Intinérants

The only way to write
is to hurt
and know it means nothing.

So

cramped,
perched on
cold hardwood floors
I’m forced to uncover my ears
to hear the echoes of
giggling toes
when we’d dance,
or
your muffled mouth
in my neck
whispering even then,
or
heels roaring
or
doors
barking warnings,
all the sounds our love
had made.

Eventually everything dissipates
as it’s absorbed into the emptiness
which surrounds us.

Yet these echoes remain
long after waves become
heat.
Reverberating,
ricocheting off the furniture of our minds,
randomly recurring
skewed snippets of conversation in
a horrible game
of broken telephone:
a coral plot line
growing in several directions
at once,
full of holes.

No,

this will be but
a graveyard of memory,
to which I’ll return only to read
the brilliant conclusions

drawn on the tombstones.

Maxims
and mindstates,
history rots.
-----------------------------------
Life lived, history recorded so that when I rot my account will skew opinions forever.