Que todo es un desastre

She was screaming but they couldn’t hear her they were all screaming and no one could hear anyone else because it was all so loud and deafening and silent except her she heard it all and them all and was trying to tell she heard it yes but they wouldn’t listen they were so loud and so busy and so deaf they didn’t know they were screaming and she was trying to let them know but they didn’t listen because they couldn’t hear because there was so much noise and everything was so silent it was clamorous but they didn’t know because they couldn’t know and they didn’t hear or see her or themselves but she did and she was screaming at them listen but it was all like laughter mouths open wide gaping like dead hollow abysses and sound like everything made vocal by the clarinet twinkling of celestial spheres orbits not held susceptible to the noise that was or not don’t know no one did couldn’t any better but didn’t want to either derisive hysterics chortling out tumbling like screams held back not by chains tied to mirth pulling borders stretching dissolving disappearing tricks unmapped obscure acted out incognito revolving pirouettes screams or laughter of course laughter and screams not heard shouted kept down bursting at the seams all on her mind thumping beating breaths strangling giving life screaming laughter they wouldn’t shut up she couldn’t.

Umbrella

I am

It is:

a wreaked dome.

upside-down consonants.

collector defender conjoiner

the most even-my-hair-refused-to-make-sense-today day.

creditor.

sutured palms.

the quexclamation in everything.

billowing curtains.

subeditor.

ruined ruins.

attempts on perpetual repeat.

spillways not released.

a questionnaire made of prolonged pauses.

Feuillemorte.

oddball oddity.

unaccountable unanimity unassailed.

all my IDKs from the last half hour.

Yugen.

tightrope.

sleepwalker.

goosebumps.

the year before last’s Decemeber.

faded calligraphy.

sillage.

your unwritten memoir.

a domed wreckage.

Diamonds and dust

The sum of us one day. The product of all our breaths wasted in the name of an end we never even saw. One step, two steps, a million pair of worn-out boots given away to roads we don’t even know the names of. Our lungs eroded away by the clouds of sand puffed out by each thud of our footsteps. All of it tied together with a ribbon of ephemeral moments in hindsight, and auctioned off to the tallest obelisks in our retrospective montage.

Our borrowed laughs of dust and our diamond-studded sighs. All being played out on the big screen as the best show the Director could bring to this forgotten landmark. Immaculate timing permeating everything from the pirouetting fairy dust to the desultory shrugs. The film-reel spinning it all out at breakneck speed.

Now we’ve seen it all. The best things ever.

And loved every second of it. Even the ones we’ve hated with a grinding conviction.

All so good, so nice, so beautiful. Because it’s gone and happened and passed.

All of it? Already?!!

All of it. Already.

Chasing Pavements

I stepped on every single crack in the morning, today. I went to unparalleled pains to look for minuscule spaces where the ground was splitting. Unlucky, I heard, were the cracks in the pavement. So I let my toes touch as many as I could find on my way here.

The Effects had all already taken place. I decided I might as well bring onto being the Causes. The whole debacle reversed and flipped.

We’ve all spent our lives chasing pavements. From one end of a Tuesday 2 am to the other end of a yellow sweater day. Running on and to and from the same fissured surface with a thousand deceitful names: a different one for each time. Blocks of broken asphalt stepping in on behalf of the cuckoo clock as euphemisms for our years and seconds. Mirror-images of our splintered contours: dipped and flawed and rifted. But still standing solid. Trailing gapped ground, our resounding footsteps becoming periodic heartbeats. Collecting our fading echoes and panting from the effort of it, these walk-ways lying stationary and watching us scamper along. Chasing pavements day in and day out. Chasing the gray cracks in everything.

'Going', I was told

I am sorry, I want to say. I want to scream it into the air. Push it into Vacuum and try to fill it with the patheticness of it. The unfairness. The heartlessness. ‘I am sorry’, I want to scratch into the white wall staring at me with its obsolete blankness; like everything else is just as simple and solid as it as well. I want to take a knife and carve it into the shiny counters which they scrub to the falsity of clinical sterility so well. ‘I am sorry’, I want to infuse into the fragrances and the stenches so they diffuse into the unseen crannies and inform them too.

I want them to take all those needles out and drill ‘I am sorry’ into them, then plunge them into the craters on my skin instead, so that I can have a pain I can explain, for once. ‘I am sorry’, I want to say over and over again, till the lining of my veins absorb what I can’t say and burst open from the harrowing anguish of it. Then I want to hold the blood in my drenched hands and meticulously inscribe ‘I am sorry’ into every single cell till one of them inflates into a lifeboat.

I want my eyes to gain vocal cords so they can verbally wail 'I am sorry' loud enough to make the world stop. 'I am sorry', I want the orchestra of crickets hiding in the night to intone. So the black veil itself carries the brunt of this ruthless unrelenting nihilism.

I want every single atom in the cosmos to repeat the mantra beating itself in my breath. I want Fire to take these words from my tongue and burn with the intensity of how badly I mean them. I want Wind to carry and spread them in flecks of ashes wherever it goes.

I am sorry. I don’t know how to say it enough times. I am sorry, I am sorry, I am sorry. I want to take these empty, hollow words and stuff them with meaning so they don’t just sound like sycophantic codes of formality.

I don’t know how to get it across to you: how sorry I am, and how much I wish I could do something, anything at all. Every insufficient word I am saying to you is a synonym of ‘I am sorry’. They don’t even contain the entirety of how heartbreakingly sorry I am. If ever anyone meant ‘I am sorry’ in its unabridged, integral, indescribably true form, it is me right now.

‘I am sorry’, I want to shriek and whisper and not say.

I am so, so, so sorry.

                                                         ~ For the inventor of Reason Cannons.

                                                             I said it then. I mean it still.

Untuned Soliloquies

Above our haunted graves
Ring out a melody stranger than strange
Our monoliths are going to scream
Dig out and claw and tear, unseam
Bit by bit, dream for a dream.

Around in an orb of wild reproach
They snicker and scowl,
Our demons, they howl
A tabooed subject they wait to broach
In No-Man’s land, see they encroach.

Its screaming, see
The wind, it screams
Hurry, go get those frozen beams
Of stone and silk and wakeful wails
And things better at hiding tales.

Inferno, it bequeathed to me
Monsters mindful, a melee
Of secrets, lies, strange goodbyes
Beautiful mistakes, each one that flies

Forgetting reason, ignoring cries.