skonen_blades (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
skonen_blades) wrote2007-12-10 02:18 am
skonen_blades) wrote2007-12-10 02:18 am
Merry Christmas
It’s time.
It’s a salad of broken Christmas ornaments and orphan’s blurry memories of long-gone parents. Each mouthful reminds me of how deep the hole is. Each glittering bite is a lonely acknowledgment of statistics.
There’s a jagged spike upwards in suicides at Christmas. If you lay it out on a graph, the spike looks kind of like a Christmas tree. Like James Brown last year, I’m aiming to be the star at the top of that tree.
I wear the most profitable mask that’s ever been made. I am not the me in the advertising. I am not the me on the covers, cards, and calendars.
I am a sad man with no friends. I have millions of admirers and money enough to cover the most bizarre of requests.
Reanimate the corpse of Dali and have him design a diamond penthouse with Braille drilled into the walls. Bring me the hearts of the Olsen Twins.
I want the sugary sweet silence of the forest to come and claim me. I want to be far from anything created by a human and that includes me.
I need peace that no amount of meditation or sated desire can bring.
There are twenty-six deer with me here in my study. They are sleeping a deep sleep that will soon lead to death if I’ve followed the instructions correctly. There’s a fading red light in the corner.
My wife will be home shortly. I’ve left her a note. It’s beside a glass of milk and a small pile of cookies. I hope she’ll understand. Hopefully the fire will have gone out by the time she gets here and we’ll all be frozen.
I spoon more of the death into my eager, slobbering mouth. I can’t tell if I’m crying with fear, happiness or sadness. All I know is that I’m crying.
My white beard is draped with tinsel.
The tiny bodies in the workhouse are lined up neatly, bagged and ready for inspection or removal. The curled toes of their shoes point at the ceiling. They are all smiling. They follow my every command, including that last one to end their own lives.
The quota has been reached. There will be a Christmas this year. Next year, they’ll have to fend for themselves.
Soon enough, I will pass into myth. It makes me smile.
The inside of my mouth is bleeding from the tiny shards of glass. The powder is working its way through me now. I’m getting sleepy.
The snow is falling thick outside the window.
tags
It’s a salad of broken Christmas ornaments and orphan’s blurry memories of long-gone parents. Each mouthful reminds me of how deep the hole is. Each glittering bite is a lonely acknowledgment of statistics.
There’s a jagged spike upwards in suicides at Christmas. If you lay it out on a graph, the spike looks kind of like a Christmas tree. Like James Brown last year, I’m aiming to be the star at the top of that tree.
I wear the most profitable mask that’s ever been made. I am not the me in the advertising. I am not the me on the covers, cards, and calendars.
I am a sad man with no friends. I have millions of admirers and money enough to cover the most bizarre of requests.
Reanimate the corpse of Dali and have him design a diamond penthouse with Braille drilled into the walls. Bring me the hearts of the Olsen Twins.
I want the sugary sweet silence of the forest to come and claim me. I want to be far from anything created by a human and that includes me.
I need peace that no amount of meditation or sated desire can bring.
There are twenty-six deer with me here in my study. They are sleeping a deep sleep that will soon lead to death if I’ve followed the instructions correctly. There’s a fading red light in the corner.
My wife will be home shortly. I’ve left her a note. It’s beside a glass of milk and a small pile of cookies. I hope she’ll understand. Hopefully the fire will have gone out by the time she gets here and we’ll all be frozen.
I spoon more of the death into my eager, slobbering mouth. I can’t tell if I’m crying with fear, happiness or sadness. All I know is that I’m crying.
My white beard is draped with tinsel.
The tiny bodies in the workhouse are lined up neatly, bagged and ready for inspection or removal. The curled toes of their shoes point at the ceiling. They are all smiling. They follow my every command, including that last one to end their own lives.
The quota has been reached. There will be a Christmas this year. Next year, they’ll have to fend for themselves.
Soon enough, I will pass into myth. It makes me smile.
The inside of my mouth is bleeding from the tiny shards of glass. The powder is working its way through me now. I’m getting sleepy.
The snow is falling thick outside the window.
tags
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i love it.
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(Anonymous) 2007-12-26 08:29 pm (UTC)(link)no subject