Day: November 9, 2004

Heaven is falling, burning with light heartless fire. It is cold and white voiced, the saints are losing their wings to the flame. Angels wept to a chorus of screaming, but they harmonize all the same. Soaring, crying with fists shaking, they can’t help but remain beautiful. Their feathered stumps dripping silver, tarnishing the cloud beneath, still remain breathtaking. Enthralling in form and perfect in grace.

do your little thing you do, roll the globe across your fingertips, yeah it makes me hot baby, when you set everything spinning, power turns me on, show me what you’ve got, incisors gleaming the way I want them to, like a needle in a jar, bite and tear baby, show me some action, show me just a little blood and wild tame murder

This is what happens when the magic dies. This is cruel to watch, but your mortal destiny. You wrapped the twine around your wrist, you pulled the ribbon from your darlings neck to see her tick, you broke the rules. Physics binding no more now than fairy charms. All the people around you, all the treasures of the worlds, lay discarded now. Descartes curses you as the earth weeps in agony. That was the secret. Nothing functions and the angels cry.

Living with procrastination, I can taste it like damp cardboard over my heart and tongue. I’ll eat my last orange, then put my shoes on. I’ll re-fill the ferret water, then put on my coat. I’ll put my things in my pocket, then walk out the door. This is the theory, this is the thought. Heavy stomached need for food driving me out, but slowly. Self destructive apathy again. Need toothpaste, mundane things, tomorrow I take the garbage out. I should leave before the better shops close, leave before my evening company comes on-line. Better than time spent elsewhere, I won’t mind once I’m there. It’s chilly outside, I will feel it on my skin like your breath on a cold icy night we have yet to have. I’m thinking of Montreal in winter. It never seems to me like there won’t be a meeting, the somnalabists assumption. Talking with fingers only, it’s like curling up to you in sleep.

It’s not lazy, it’s lying down in traffic.

Every day I want to be there, slide down into depravity with you all. Man the sinking ship and maybe get drunk once or twice. Heave ho and torch the place a little when you have to leave. All that slick sweetfire jazz that aches in the belly, that weakens the knees. Opportunity moved, somebody followed with it, dying every tuesday that they can’t see my face.

The city heights scrape stormflesh from the eager sky. I walked downtown yesterday and suddenly looked up as I walked, my eyes glued to navy blue. This sky is our only sky, it is large and vast and immeasurable. The wild cloak we unrepentantly breathe into our bodies every last minute. Virus are known to be immortal, this breath was a breath that Mozart sneezed back out, his lungs rejecting it. There is always a last minute, but not for the immutable sky.

This hangs over your head too, you know.