skonen_blades: (hamused)
As long as I stay busy then I never have to think.
And if I ever have to think then I can always drink.
The common earthworm has five hearts that beat at different speeds.
I like to think that every one of them has different needs
I don’t believe that everything is valid and I’m wrong
The radar pings that I have sent have all come back as pong
I try to stay in tributaries ‘cause I hate main streams
It’s easier to row my boat so gently when I dream
If truth is stranger than the way I use a dictionary
Then I am not a writer, rather, I’m a fictionary.

tags
skonen_blades: (hamused)
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Love is what gives us all life while we’re here
Brains are fantastic but I think it’s clear
That brains, while quite useful, are computery
They just sort of think. They don’t feel much, you see.
But hearts now, they’re passionate, foolish, and strong
They don’t know their right from their left or their wrong
When playing a video game, at the start
YOU get some lives and they’re shaped like a heart
If YOU lose too many too quickly, you die
Your body collapses and then there you lie
But the NEXT time you play when you get to the part
That once was too hard and would take your poor heart
You know how to dodge, or jump, or defend
And if you keep playing, you get to the end
At least of that level. Cause there’s always more.
But the more that you play and the higher you score
The more hearts you get and the longer you love
Hearts fit a life like a hand fits a glove
‘Cause they’re what’s inside and they just keep on giving
Without your heart then you can’t go on living
A literal truth but a metaphor, too.
If you allow yourself (when you feel blue)
To IGnore your heart and pretend it’s not there
THAT all that you have in your chest is just air
Then one, you’re a liar and two, you can’t do it
The heart won’t be smothered. I’ve effing been through it.
Love can’t be beaten and can’t be contained.
It takes too much effort and makes a life strained.
Love that’s denied is a blight on the soul
Because you can’t turn your heart into a hole
No quarter asked for and no quarter given
You say you’re alive but I don’t think that’s livin’
If you fight your heart, when you win then you lose
No matter the person and no matter whose
Heart takes a beating, it always beats back
Hearts always fight when they feel an attack
Or else they leap or they duck or they run
The only thing hearts like to play for is fun
Your brain’s the controller. Your hands have the skills
So dive down those valleys and run up those hills
Press all the buttons and move left and right
Practice your loving all day and all night
Loving and games are unique in this way.
You only get better the more that you PLAY.
I’ve got some quarters rolled up in a tube
In my pocket and yes, I am happy to see you
Let’s have a two-player, co-op, turn-based
Side-scrolling platformer medium-paced
RPG flash game with magic gold rings
Your BRAIN knows the words but it’s YOUR heart that sings
So remember this moral this Valentine’s day
To be better at love then play, player, play.
And remember when playing to lead with your heart
Up down left right B A start




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skonen_blades: (bounder)
The problem with love is this. When I look at you, I think “You deserve the best. And I am not the best.” I’m the problem. It’d be easy to say that I’m a bag of glass, that I’m a burned-down church, but I think it’d be truer to say that my good conscience and my bad conscience agree pretty much all the time these days which is confusing. My good conscience is like “I think you should kiss her.” And my bad conscience is like “Yeah. I think so, too.” And I’m like “Thanks for the fucking help, guys.” If my mind is a house of commons, then I’ve become bipartisan to the point of indecision.

Right now I’m starring in the movie Teen Wolf Fourteen: Middle Aged Wolf. I’m a compromise. Like death metal coming out of a sensible family minivan. I’ve turned into a prudent prude. My past, present, and future are all tense. I’m tight because I’m well-taut. I’m a clown at a funeral. I’m worried that I’ll find Narnia in the back of an oven when I notice that the squeal of brakes can sound like somebody screaming. I want to be a tragic figure but I’m not. So I’ve decided to move slower. For the rest of my life.

I wonder if Wolverine’s healing ability works on broken hearts. I wonder if men go crazy because they’re not allowed to be loving. I’ve heard it said that it rains on everyone’s roofs but it’s loudest on the tin ones meaning that the sensitive people hear life the most. I say that earplugs are available for fifty cents on the corner of lalala boulevard and I can’t hear you street.

What does the heart say? I don’t know. Mine says “if you want unconditional love, get a dog.” Mine says “If you’re dirty, then love me until you’re clean.” Mine says “My stomach has never been filled with butterflies. It’s full of caterpillars. It’s gross.”

I never lose my cool because you can’t lose what you never had. I’ve never been this old. On the other hand, I’ll never be this young again.

So fuck it.

Love is the most important thing in the world. I’m taking off my arrow proof vest. I’m not only going to take out my earplugs, I’m going to get hearing aids to listen to the rain. I’m going to improve myself to the best version of myself I can be so that I can feel like I deserve love. I’m going to prorogue my mental parliament and tell my conscience to start making sense. I’ll star in Middle Aged Man, an independent surprise hit feature. It’ll be my New Year’s Revolution.

And I’m starting it now.



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
I’m a doctor cutting into leftover heart tissue that's been microwaved into jerky and then left to harden in the hot sun of heartbreak.

It’s open heart perjury. It’s a life-saving amputation. It’s a vet putting an animal to sleep.

Love can be a courtroom spelling contest sometimes. Spell definition. Spell loyalty. Spell pause. Spell break. Spell still not getting it. Spell being the last person to figure out that I’m single now. Spell drinking.

Love is blind because it’s locked in a chest but because love is blind, it can see in the dark. It does keep bumping into people, though. And falling down stairs. Love is blind but it has the most powerful eyes since justice.

Each surgery is just a doctor’s best guess with the best training we have to offer. Question: What do you call a doctor who nearly fails his final exam? Answer: Doctor.

If this love is a math problem, then let it be algebra. If you are my ex and I still can’t figure out why, then let x = y.

We are all doctors operating on each other without the benefit of schooling, only on-the-job training. Veterinarians know what the most merciful choice is sometimes. Anesthesiologists put each other to sleep on the last week of school so they can see how it feels and dentists numb each other’s mouths.

So doctor, reach into the hole here that doesn’t beat anymore. Dentist, reach into my chest cavity. Veterinarian, prick my non-existent phantom-limb heart with a needle and pet it like a pet until it goes to sleep. So that it’s numb. So that I can’t feel anything.

So I can learn, too.




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skonen_blades: (hamused)
A reworking of the three latest pieces. Still a bit frankensteiny but the good parts really worked. Need to make it more cohesive.
-------------

I have Picasso’s blue period all over my tongue and all I do is lick barber poles until they stop being candy canes and start being the glowing electric bug killers that hang out in front of lonely bars in hot provinces. I have a helmet made from dreams rolled flat and lacquered into a carapace that protects me when I rush headlong into stupid, stupid intersections. It doesn’t occur to me that there is a shorter way to the destination. I still try to get recipes by seducing shoe stores. I airplane my shopping lists into blue skies that I can’t come back from.

To say that my heart is a parachute would be accurate. It only opens when it’s falling and it doesn’t stop the descent, it only slows it down and makes the landing safer. I wish I could get taken away by aliens and brought back a better person. But if you judge a peacock by its ability to explain particle fusion, you will disappoint the road map and learn to speak in crutches.

The bedsprings of your lips leave me wanting to test the tensile strength of honesty. You bend me like sound waves through a speaker. I’m a frat party balancing on a stool in a closet and you’re the avalanche pinned behind the starting gun. If this is a staring contest, I’m all out of eyes. Because I’m old.

Sometimes, the ghost of me arrives. I’ll be sitting in a coffee shop, hanging out in a bar with friends, even reading a book by myself at home and there’s a feeling I get when I know that that guy, that yesterday me who really knew me would know how much fun I’m having and then it makes me sad because now I’m the only person who knows. It’s like rocking out to Sabotage and then remembering that one of the Beastie Boys is dead. But this isn’t about my sadness or the idea that I’m lonely. Because I’m not. I’m not.

It’s just that when young me breezes in, it’s unexpected. I’m happy to see him but I feel a little tainted that he chose such good times to show up again. I miss him so much. I miss him to the point that I wish I’d never been him but only for a second. He crosses my mind and it’s a stroke across my heart from a cold, mid-life crisis paintbrush. Younger me was a douchebag and I am trying to be less of one but I miss his fire. And this is where I live sometimes. At this crossroads of memory and reality. A yearning for a greener-grass past that was never actually as good as this present.

But back to you. You’re a time before coffee. You’re a land before space. Deep within the lungs of God you awaken. You have no complaints department because you have no complaints. Duct tape holds together the model airplane of my soul but you, you’re a classical violinist on vacation here. You’re a piano-string-puppet and there’s a blue fire in your heart. You’re a key. People put keys in to unlock things and turn keys to wind things up and pull keys out to make things explode. Cats run wild on your farm. Your teeth float to the top like your mouth is made of cream. You’re limber cause you’re good at limbo. You’re weightless cause you’re good at waiting. Lighting doesn’t kill because you’re a better conduit than the rest of us.

You remind me that barbers used to be doctors which means that barbers used to bleed their customers
to make them feel better. You remind me that genies are a euphemism for hubris and that our greed is a lying telescope to another world where nothing bad exists. Our fantasies are a forum for untruths that only speak to us in paper lanterns and lovers that never say the wrong thing.

All I know is that a scorpion’s claw can’t hold a pen and that I’m happy that I know you.




tags
skonen_blades: (hamused)
Hearts are parachutes
They open when they're falling
To make landing safe



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
I have Picasso’s blue period all over my tongue and all I do is lick barber poles until they stop being candy canes and start being blue electric advertisements for those stores that always have what you want but it comes at a genie-swindle price. Barbers used to be doctors which meant that barbers used to bleed their customers to make them feel better. Genies are a euphemism for basements in our souls. Our greed is an escape hatch to another world where nothing bad exists. Our fantasies are a forum for lies that only speak to us in lanterns and lovers that never say the wrong thing. I have a helmet made from dreams rolled flat and lacquered into a carapace that protects me when I rush headlong into stupid, stupid intersections.

To say that my heart is a race car is a lie. To say that it is a parachute would be accurate. It only opens when it’s falling and it doesn’t slow the descent, it only slows it down and makes it land safer. I am one driving lesson away from leaving the road. My heart beats like an ambulance. My heart’s an underground river. My wish is that I get taken by aliens and brought back a better person.


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skonen_blades: (bounder)
There’s a piece of wood through my heart and I can’t figure out if it’s a pool cue, a diving board, or a plank for pirates.

All I know is that it bookmarks my heart halfway through this love story and keeps it from beating. A root that twists through the tough muscle like a red tongue of metal. One of those circus tent-pegs that takes ten strong men to pound into place and a tornado to remove. It pins me to whatever butterfly board God likes to look at when he wants to look at what he’s caught. Some days it’s a toothpick, a sliver. No more than itch. But some days it’s a telephone pole that keeps me from turning corners without knocking people over, a log that keeps me out of revolving doors.

Perhaps it’s an arrow from some anti-cupid. An indifference baby, some sort of love-antidote-firing child in the sky. Maybe it’s a Charlie Chaplin cane to pull out of my chest like King Arthur when I get older, finally allowing me to love my grandchildren.

If it’s a stake for killing vampires, it didn’t work.

If it’s a stake for burning witches then it’s never been used.

Maybe it’s a floorboard from the church I don’t believe in anymore.

If is IS a pool cue then it’s my turn to break. If it IS a diving board then I’m about to surprise the Olympic judges with a jackknife cannonball bellyflop. If it IS a plank then I’ll breakdance to the end of it and do laps around the boat laughing.

My heart can’t beat. It can only struggle, trying to hug it out sixty times a minute but it doesn’t work.

Maybe if a lot of us with the same problem work together we can build a log cabin to keep the world out and us inside.

But I think it’s more likely that on a day when it’s long, I’ll just use it to pole vault into the sun.




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skonen_blades: (blurg)
My heart is the mouth of an empty suitcase. When it gets filled it travels somewhere else. I trust it as much as any one-way ticket. It has the stickers from different cities and other hearts on it like in a cartoon. So far I have followed it from person to person and town to town but enough is enough.

I can’t let my baggage control me. I can’t let my luggage lead me. I am the one who is supposed to carry my own heart. I will not let it run anymore. Or more to the point, I will not chase it. If my heart decides to leave when it’s full, I will wait for it to come back empty.

There is always love in this world for any heart.

We are led by our hearts but we can't rein them in. We can’t stop them from running but we can give them a safe place to come back to. Hearts are wild and capricious but they want a warm home more than anything else.

Hearts aren’t good at hitting moving targets. They need a clear line of sight. They are puppies the size of marriages. They are arrows as straight as a one-night stand. Hearts are made of potential futures, as fractured as the destiny of families.

But most of all they are hungry. They starve to skinniness and grow as fat as we let them. All our hearts together are schools of fish swarming and banking, eating time. Or sparrows. Or locusts. But that is what our hearts are. Mouths that travel when full.




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skonen_blades: (hamused)
Turned it into more of a sales pitch

The fortifications of these special hearts
Are made up of different and specified parts
The blast doors are open but shut with a crash
When they’re required to stop something rash
The armour is old and they squeak when they move
The wax in their love-holes is covered in grooves
Their earmuffs and blindfolds and tied up all tight
(but oddly, they seem to see better at night
And hear what they want to no matter what’s said.)
They’re brimming with life but they’re camouflaged dead.
'Cause hearts that don’t “heart” are much safer, you see.
You learn this quite quickly when in infancy
An up through to college and sometimes beyond
When someone or something of who’ve you’ve grown fond
Takes a big stab at your life-giving part
The oxygenating, mammalian heart
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Because your heart holds what is precious to you
It holds all your love there and other’s love, too
Impossible though the heart may be to sway
And though no heart’s ever been made to obey
A heart can be muffled and helped to forget
And still kept around like an old, favourite pet
Because without hearts then we all drop down dead
But here we can ‘help’ the heart out with our head
Give it some crutches, a tv, some wine
A bullet proof vest, and a big neon sign
That says nothing’s wrong but that none need apply
Just leave it alone and it never asks why
That way the human that’s wrapped round that heart
Can stay unperturbed by that worrisome part
And still walk around with fresh blood in their veins
No aches or depressions or heartbreak or pains
Just super protected. A Frankenstein pump.
Useful but no longer tempted to jump
Off every high rooftop to soar with pink wings
These aren’t concerned with such frivolous things
These miracle hearts let you live without life
Experience sadness without feeling strife
They let you feel something that’s sort of like love
It’s like your heart’s wrapped in a thick rubber glove
With these hearts you no longer need to feel pain
Remorse or rejection or anger or shame
They’re trademarked and patented, all copywritten
They take out the fallout from when you’ve been smitten
And you all have one for 9.99.
Stop feeling bad and start feeling fine.
Order yours now! There’s more on the way!
A life that is peaceful can be yours today!
Order yours quickly! While supplies last!
Order one now because they’re going fast!



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skonen_blades: (heymac)
I have this need – a tunnel of
Like there is another level of existence under
Like reality is double-spaced with every second line
Invisible.
I have a key between my teeth held like a dagger
And I swim to the
And I swing from the
And I flow through the
And I dig under the
And I fly around the
And here I am with treasure after returning
Helmet off. Feet up.
Hammers in their proper places.
Tools on their shelves.
Understanding hanging off the coat hook by the door
A fridge full of meaning
A forgotten to the swirling back
Running through fingers to memoried remembers
Sipping a hot cup of
Winter outside
Summer in my heart




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skonen_blades: (hamused)
April 30/30

14/30

The fortifications of everyone’s hearts
Are made up of different and specified parts
The blast doors are open but shut with a crash
When they’re required to stop something rash
The armour is old and it squeaks when it moves
The wax in its love-holes are covered in grooves
Its earmuffs and blindfolds and tied up all tight
(but oddly, hearts seems to see better at night
And hear what they want to no matter what’s said.)
It’s brimming with life but it’s camouflaged dead.
'Cause hearts that don’t “heart” are safer, you see.
You learn this quite quickly when in infancy
An up through to college and sometimes beyond
When someone or something of who’ve you’ve grown fond
Takes a big stab at your life-giving part
The oxygenating, mammalian heart
There is a reason in video games
Why lives look like hearts and they don’t look like brains
Because your heart holds what is precious to you
It holds all your love there and other’s love, too
Impossible though the heart may be to sway
And though no heart’s ever been made to obey
A heart can be muffled and helped to forget
And still kept around like an old, favourite pet
Because without hearts then we all drop down dead
But if we can ‘help’ our hearts out with our head
Give it some crutches, a tv, some wine
A bullet proof vest, and a big neon sign
That says nothing’s wrong but that none need apply
Just leave it alone in its safety to die.
That way the human that’s wrapped round that heart
Can stay unperturbed by that worrisome part
And still walk around with fresh blood in their veins
No aches or depressions or hearbreak or pains
Just super protected. A Frankenstein pump.
Useful but no longer tempted to jump
Off every high rooftop to soar with pink wings
Mine’s unconcerned with such frivolous things
A miracle heart is inside me and so
I’ll show it you. Oh shoot. Where’d it go?



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skonen_blades: (hamused)
Fear is just a trick that works. The downramp from my parking garage heart is filled with homeless newspaper and silence. It’s not post-apocalyptic. It’s more never-was. It’s a white corner. The paint is fresh. I snap my fingers and they break. The filing cabinet is packed and ordered but hard to open. My spine is hardening. The world has plans for itself. We wind around the destiny like snakes on a caduceus. Medicine is the best laughter. The speaker is rain. The ski hill is barren. We are all floating on time’s stream and pretending to have a little control. I did not fear chaos when I was young. I fear chaos now that I am old. It feels like routine is all we have. Perhaps that is just age taking root in me. Talking tables warn of sharp corners and brick millionaires.


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skonen_blades: (Default)
I need your help to turn this toy story into a fork festival. I want to make anvil with your feet in the stirrups of my ear, spurring me on with warm language and salty air. You pale corner. You freckled mast. You iconic finger bridge from dance party to pillow. I feel the stitched-together Frankenstein’s monster of you smiling for the cameras and I want to join your army. I want a taste of your teeth in my mouth. Give me a handout cape so I can make change. Have you ever fought crime? I only ask because you look like you’d be a natural.

Unsaid doesn’t mean taken back. It means never spoke.

Can I be the best man at your wake? I’ll snap my fingers and you’ll get up, ready to order in the fancy-restaurant heart we were supposed to create but only sketched out. A dream of lazy artifice that never took place. All recipe, no cake. Or maybe all cake but no icing. Not in this life. We took pictures of that future and hung them indoors where they wouldn’t be damaged by the sun or ruined by the rain. Safe in the meat of our hearts. Safe in the spined huts of our hotel memories.

A terrace is a balcony. A railslide is a tightrope of forgiveness down a line of trust. Your heart is a sudden drop like turbulence when for a second, there’s no support and gravity forgets itself. Each inside-out greeting card butterfly is a painter on my stomach when you’re around. I fight for air but you don’t even notice because I’m that good. I’ll never tell you about the monster skeleton in the trunk of my car or the memories in my closet. As the water wears the beach, so does the beach wear the water.

Each life is a closed system. I’m glad I met you when we were both still open.





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skonen_blades: (jabbadoubt)
The matrix isn’t science fiction. It’s real. And today has been one of those days that made me wonder if escape is ever really possible.

I don’t mean that we are asleep at the mercy of machines that are using us for power although when I say it like that, that has a ringtone to it. I mean that we are the mercy of the notion of safety. We are in society’s cage. We are victimized by our parent’s expectations, the fear of being destitute, the addiction to the illusion of security, and the total denial of the obvious worst that stares us in the face every waking hour.

Try to escape it you’ll find the walls. Money will be poured on you. Advice will be given to you. Responsibility will be given to you. It’s more weight that helps keep the matrix in place. Free spirits are the enemy of society.

In movies where dimensions of evil are unlocked, they’re often described as dimensions of pure chaos. As if order is the natural enemy of evil. As if order is all that is good. It’s been hammered into us the way that metal is hammered into the shape of swords.

And I believe it’s always been this way. I believe it was this way in Hawaii in 300 BC. I believe it was this way in New York in 1955. I believe it will be this way centuries from now.

There is no escape. All you can do is follow your heart and more importantly, listen to your to heart. Whether or not there’s an afterlife, reincarnation, or nothing at all, I’m relatively sure that this life is a singular experience. The stakes are much higher than anyone will ever be comfortable with.

So good luck, fellow traveler.




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skonen_blades: (Default)
Hers was the devil’s mouth. Full of kinetic energy wrapped around a lightning-rod silver tongue with the full knowledge that tears conduct electricity. Pushing electrons out of speakers to make entire rooms question love and the validity of locks. A bear trap that doesn’t work anymore is just an art installation, a harsh carpet. Trigger me this, batman. If I poured your parent’s blood through a harmonica, would you hear their voices?

Some laughs just cut across the throat of crowded bars. Her laugh destroyed bridges. In no time at all, her love notes became half notes and she sang the song of storks. Crush hard on whatever slice of Europe is available to you, said the song. Love the feel of the word ‘escape’ clogging your elegant throat and making it hard to speak. Build a house out of lottery tickets and dog tags.

From far away, I beheld her in my arms. Dot dot dot. I sent her e-lips.

Men only proposed to her when they were on their backs. She always said no. She kept dragon wings in her hope chest. She drank panda tears. Sure, she got addicted to heroin but she got addicted in Italy. Sure, she fell down some stairs but it happened in Paris.

Sure, she died.

But she died in Prague.

Her failure was like fireworks to the rest of us.




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skonen_blades: (bounder)
The calmest place on Earth is on top of an icy plateau in Antarctica known as Ridge A, several hundred miles from the South Pole. It is so still that stars do not twinkle in the sky because there is no turbulence in the atmosphere to distort the light.

That is what my heart becomes when I look at you.

In each twisting moment that hangs off of the precipice tongues of my dinosaur mind, atrophied teachings and bad moments compete on my flypaper brain for attention. Any measure of astuteness is an illusion. “Your time here is meaningless and brief” the voices say. It’s a whirlwind up there. The sharp edges smack the marbles into brief spurts of anger and ideas. Guilt flares like a broken generator. The muck my thought process wades through takes and grips and slows and tires. I reach for diamonds and get the dusted glass used to poison food.

You are good. So I will leave you alone. That is what I used to say.

You are my biggest fan. And I have a handful of shit. Let’s see what happens.

It got so crowded and dark up there. I don’t know how the driver’s seat of my soul became so crowded with cigarette butts, take-out containers, mystery meat and old underwear. I can barely see through the windshield anymore.

It wasn’t any one thing. It accumulated.

We don’t remember falling asleep. But we remember waking up. This is the gentle reminder of the malleable nature of our existence.

It was when I saw you that I woke up. My heart stopped beating itself up and became that spot in Antarctica. It was so quiet I could hear the snow around me in the darkness, points of light reflecting the night sky above and nothing but possibility extending in every direction.

Every step’s the first one now, and my heart is calm.



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skonen_blades: (dark)
The ruckus originated in the depths of whatever was left of my litterbox heart. It was like a small screaming at first, a baby heard from eight blocks away in the early-morning stillness of a European city. A muffled smoke alarm from an apartment three floors down. A slight ripple of unease as the sharpened pieces of what used to keep me alive registered a disturbance in the force. A polite shuddering like the beginning of a teacup shattering in reverse, the pieces starting to wobble, preparing to leap back to the point of impact to form a teacup again but then, exhausted by effort, resting.

Or something less, even. Like sizzling bacon also sounds like rain or applause. Unidentifiable but existing. The twitch of a corpse on an autopsy table. A punching bag in a garbage dump getting small, effort-soaked twinges of memory. Remembered impacts making this organ in my chest move like a dreaming dog. The far-off sound of a boomerang coming back for vengeance.

There is a darkness that walks hand in hand with all of us. As sure as Coca Cola spawned Santa, our foundations are from a different era with different values. Snapshot parents pushed the day’s morals on us as armour for a future as unimagined and outdated as a printing press at an iphone convention. We are by definition unguarded. We are gullible by acclimation. The only option is to live with arrows in our pincushion hearts and slings around our broken arms. Crowdsurfing the internet, using the chatter to drown out the chatter. Covering up the noise with more noise. Running from the silence that reminds us of beginnings.

My heart is the abandoned house that kids throw rocks at on a dare. The emotionless shark-eye vacuum of emotion. A hole where one should not be. A black circle making phone calls to numbers that no longer exist. A child with no hands that longs to finger paint. The instructions on the back of an assisted suicide kit. A warning label so verbose that the pictograms and multilingual paragraphs bleed into one giant rained-on smear of caution.




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skonen_blades: (Default)
I lie, garroted across the carotid, spreading lake of red life already cooling beneath me. I lie like a thrown towel on the forty-fifth floor of my own ambition, accruing layers the size of years, as guilty and as innocent as the muscles inside a rapist’s fingers.

Once more onto the boards, my friends! All the world’s backstage. Her eyes are wide when she looks down at me dying and I’m reminded that hell is just a place where cool people go to get warm. She smiles. I smile back. My heart is trying to beat but there is metal in the way, forcing it to warp and slosh, a red washing machine draining.

Do it. Go to the edge. But report back.




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skonen_blades: (gimmesommo)
My heart is a recently released convict. It’s scared of the freedom and it’s considering committing a crime just to go back to prison.

My heart is a woman. I can tell because it’s pregnant with conjoined twins that hate each other and they fight all the time.

My heart is a piñata. Set my love free by beating it out of me. Take it.

My heart is the night shift in a coal mine. It’s coughing and there’s always the danger of a coal-dust fire or a cave-in.

My heart is my own shadow that leaps in front me like an excited dog while I feel the heat on back as I run from the nuclear dragon.

My heart says words like murkallacent. Like affidious. Like pertorial.

My heart takes storms by storm.

My heart is a blueberry pancake.

And this is summer.



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Profile

skonen_blades: (Default)
skonen_blades

July 2017

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