Monday, March 19, 2007

Original Sin

We fall.

From those tiny cracks in time between our spoken words, between the borders of our skins, the spaces we do not cross, from the moments that are fleeting for we dare not dwell upon them - we fall.

I wish for rain. It does not show. Not a blot on the sky today. The cleansing must be postponed. A few more days with the sin.

Not a bad thing entirely, living with the blazing metal lodged deep within. Now cooling, coagulating with my blood, my very being, it releases an alchemy of its own.

I try to ignore it, turn to stone. To not feel, to be. To only be. And to feel only what is impressed, to not desire action or reaction. To not be mortal, or even immortal? To only be.

The mind wanders free. And then, a tug at the tissues. Or is it the other way around? Reality has lost its structure. Mouth dry, palms wet with anticipation, I struggle to breath. The bullet makes its way up to my head.

Soon, the poison will spread. I am helpless, I realise. I plunge a blade into the evil, I seek to root it out. No such luck. It stays within, the original sin. Time kills all, I hope. Another day of torment, another year at most.

Sins passed on, from host to host. The sins of the fathers visited by the sons.

To not have time before me, just this once? Too much to demand. The vile knowledge inside me has built a wall.

And, for our wretched loss of innocence, we fall.

Sunday, March 11, 2007

Death before Resurrection

I am mortal.

It is the heat ablaze in my chest that tells me so. It is the warmth that coats my naked body, the sweat that envelops it. It is the cling film embrace of humidity that buries me alive. Alive. It is the pointed feel of cold steel lodged between my eyes that tells me I am alive. And mortal.

I reach for my piece but I know I’m not packing any. Instinct. Never fails you. It’s the other part of thinking that trips you up and leaves you without a gun when you need one. The Rational Approach. And it’s all the weapon I have on me. I close my eyes and consult The Rational Approach. What should I do now?

A blow to the jaw and my world takes a tumble. The nuts in my head roulette around. It takes a while for the noodle to unscramble and The Rational Approach flashes like a cheap neon sign. Concentrate and ask again, it says. No fucking magic 8-ball, this.

I should have stayed off the wagon. When you’re drinking, you’re not thinking. You operate from the base, the core, the gut. All fat of perception and learning skimmed off the nerve. You are animal, poised for fight or flight. Fight.

I need a drink and I have a gun pasted to my head. Don’t we all? Mortality. It’s a fucking joke, a prank, a gag we can’t see the point to. It’s a grand piano falling on somebody’s head. It’s a bus, a train, a taxicab. It’s the curler that slips into the bath tub. The elevator floor that gives way. There’s always a gun somewhere. Always. Why should now be any different?

I am mortal. But I’m not dead. Not just yet