The creative gift is as ever its greatest curse, for in eternal imagination to write a verse, so in endless potential to see the success or failure of what we do, so opens a door to where insanity will answer with either a poison or a cure
Pressure over time creates an eternally momentum building black hole of applied condensation of everything that constructs the very warped fibres of a facture ridden collapse of everything we know, have faith in and trust…. when once the release of these primal destructing forces is occurred, hell but beckons as a positive alternative to the reality that crumbles around the distorted windows, those through which every fatally fateful event since further fractures that fragile faith you had in your own ability.
How do you take weakly faltering step in front of potential stumbling step and know that once it was so much more solid before when you strode powerfully through doubts quagmire, little perception of the potentially crumbling reality around distorted windows that now only show the inherently under trodden footsteps of fated failure and despair.
Broken implies a repair to be implemented
Repair implies it is possible to remedy the problem
When considering the lowering tones of a mournful mood that every depressive, doubting and seemingly self-damned soul measures the mournfully lacking success of anything they have accomplished… broken, to brake, holds meaning so much more irreparable.
How does one then fabricate that seemingly easy thing to cognitively conjure when whole; an answer, solution, fix or resolution?
Till that mythical answer has proven worth, so broken will the afflicted remain.
It’s shadow hung over the entire room, the sickly sparkly glaring disco ball off a puke fest “Geeze buddy, you get a acid tripping fairy to puke these decorations up” Edgar’s voice offending every red pointy hat patron; currently shuffling covertly away from the blackening cloud of despair lingering above his head “I feel like I might be in a bad TV special” the drink in Edgar’s hand taking the edge off all the sickening merriment.
The barkeep was new; young and unsullied like a fresh apple off the tree, dropped into the flaming pits and about to lose the shiny sheen “You guys are so morbid, lighten up its..” Edgar’s look shut his smugly positive tone down fast, dust trail fast “ok, I sense those words won’t go down well” as the barkeep retreated to a brighter corner of the bar”, it was then that the bar owner emerged in all her five eight, sexy arsed sequin dress coated imposing figure.
The women’s sauntering put to mortal shame an actress seductively prowling a casting party, every sly movement scripted more than a political speech and damn more finer “Why the party bitch, friggin happy hour and I’ve got to wear dark glasses get past that grotesque thing” Edgar’s glass wielding hand so slightly hinting towards the overshadowing Christmas tree “at least be a half decent hostess and refill my drink, feels like I got a desert in my hand” glass wielding hand again highlighted, an edge of elusive cheer under the layers of unhappiness staining his voice’s latest barrage of offence.
She planted herself as a tree behind the bar, bottle tight in her branch like grip as eyes turned to fiery pits; each fire ball brewing aimed at the bar steward called Edgar P Smith “You” opening her mouth stiffly for the single word, as loaded as a barrel full of hatred filled dictionaries “you are a dirty mark on this world so terrible stained the colours of all that’s wrong, no amount of bullets or bleach could remove you” with the full scornful array of pitch only a women’s voice could achieve, as she shrewdly manipulated her perfect form towards Edgar, in such an articulated manner a stage director would be stunned with awe.
Edgar lost none of the momentive explosiveness of their exchange as he stayed rocky still with that same depressive grin slapped all over his rough shaven features, sniper sharp eyes locked onto the bar owners own fiery hellion orbs “Well, if I am to blemish this world you could at least make sure it’s not in a sober fashion you useless…” a pause upon the ledge of what could be the fuse lighting word “no, I’ll hold back as a priest at a porn convention” that hint of elusive cheer twisting darkly into playfully tempting cruelty.
The young barkeep was like the other immediate revellers; frozen in curiosity as each of them craned necks a little over the invisible hazard line of where safe distance became willing suicide, two protagonists locked dangerously into a destructive dance of poisonous jibes and ignitable volatile hatefulness. The bar owner as close as she could be without the bar disintegrating; its job more safety barrier than extended drinks coaster, Edgar leaning the least closest he could without shattering the illusively calm qualities of what made him appear statue still.
Gunfights in westerns paled to how this showdown ratcheted the tension beyond unbearable…
“If I wasn’t a lady I’d have my knife so far into your throat… I’d aim for the heart but that’s something you sold out a long time ago” she quietly exaggerated her volume
“A lady would have poured me a drink… and considering your attire; I’d be a little turned on as to where you were hiding that knife” Edgar playfully poking the unstable bomb of a woman before him
She slapped him with such resounding sound the onlookers were affected by the shockwaves, Edgar unmoved in the slightest and grinning so much more twistedly and darker than before
“I’ve shot men for less” his free hand placing a charged energy pistol on the bar “want to see how heartless I can get” a dare as menacingly spoken as the sniper shot of rage from his fixated glare
She casually manipulated the gun, Edgar’s hand still gripping it, to her chest “Go on” no sense of fear in the threateningly quiet manner with which she delivered her potentially fatal invitation
Edgar placed his empty glass on the bar’s surface, now as ever the only thing preventing their bodies meeting in a probably horrifically violent outcome, as in an act of escalation Edgar in intimidating fashion rose to his feet and snatched the bottle from her lightning quick and forcible enough to get an ‘oohhh’ from the crowd. “At least pull the knife bitch, make it a fair fight” swigging wildly from the bottle in outlandish style, gun not moving from her chest “or are you all innuendo and no action” that darkly playful tone further twisting into places the devil would stay away from.
The bar owner’s newly free hand slid her dress up seductively slowly; the crowds reactions varying from lustful stares to further faint complexions, a five inch blade of slim design drawn slowly from its thigh binding in a purposefully drawn out way, feeding freely the strangling tension of the room as the merest sound caused palatable paranoiac effect within the neck straining crowd. As the blade’s tip was turned so softly upon Edgar’s throat his breath remained calm, as ever to prevent additional intrusion into his flesh as to preserve the impossible levelled calm he still somehow exuded with illusively visible ease.
“Could have just hello you drama queen” the bar owner laughed
The looks on the gathering faces was so purely shock, such dangerously escalating heights of damningly tense levels descended in the merest of seconds “You ain’t a writer, my phone never breaches my hangover with that so dorsal voice of yours and…” Edgar holding with an edge of frustration as he faced the still lingering crowd “you can fuck off now” a significant instructing boom to the volume of his disinterested tone.
By the morning a knife sat next to Edgar’s gun on the floor of his office, next to the bar owners dress… without a body in it “Next Christmas Edgar, we do this in my office” she muttered half asleep, “Next year we just go on a fucking date, less hazardous you crazy bitch” scratching a red spot on his throat, she smiled.
Hatred so pure as to dissolve with a single drip any semblance of positive will
Friendships lost to rivers burning through the bridges once so strong
Love a hollow pit from whence the demon was both born and died
Life a lie into which the damned sacrifice themselves to stay numb
For feeling is a nightmare raised in the depths of emotional graves
And never sits right for those whose hatred is strongest for themselves
A Joke; I can’t cry so all I have to show emotions is by taking a knife to my flesh
There upon the pinnacle of perfection lies a point of perception so much attuned to what our worlds are within the fractious chasms of flame, that only a singular person may see it within the obsessive focus two fold of what a madman may feel
To take apart with the methodical removal of brick by bloody brick the whole entirety of a person’s world, reason and rhyme a shadow of sanities fading form in the methodical removal of a person’s very foundation in the subversively torturous process required to go through with such a suicidal kill; a process by which all the upheaval achieves is merely to avoid the epically scaled monstrosity of what refuses to be deconstructed at the core of where his troubles began
The prison cell grows no bigger or sizes larger than what the mentality of a life lacking inmate has grown to know; the thankless bounds by which all a horde would enslave never offering the faintest ideal of freedom with each maliciously stinging blow
Endless steps out into the ashen fields with furies pace to evade that particular centre of what draggingly leaches the limping will to breathe, only to push the prison cell this a’ways to the right or left as the central villain of a man’s fate resides where the centre of that seemingly decreasing cell follows; following with as much furies pace as desperation compels him to put foot ahead of foot in endless step
To turn to see the reflective truth of that villains stare as eyes so damningly dark betray every repulsion drenched ideological dagger I hath cast upon my own flesh; all that remains when the very fated fragmented deception falls fatally to the flames and bare only the fractured and hollow form I wear
A wrist a paper thin contract with life
A razor a pen to break the terms of a life sentence
A mesh of loving fibres to sever
Should I ever stop running from the fatal truth
That the lies are less painful than facing the soul of this soulless creature
The soul a twisted representative debt to all the potential I have cast into the cause to stay blissfully numb
To shatter into a thousand shards
And have to patch the pieces together
Is nothing less than painful
And no more than torture