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Authors: G.R. Yeates
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mask.
Unwanted.
This timeless state cannot go on and this knowledge makes me mourn a little. This anti-emotional purgatory is better than nothing and nothing is what I will return to. A world full of nothing for me. A century leaving me behind. I hear the hordes at the gates. The barbed wire rending at the big-high-tall fortifications. I am my own mason. I built myself in here. All the while telling myself that one day I would climb out, one day, one time, to look at a bright summer’s day.
Such a lie.
I left holes here and there, for a time, hoping someone might pass by. Look in, not see me, part of me, a length of carved-down plywood, a bloodied marionette string, strangled things that twitch out to death’s lonesome black signature tune. I fashion a ladder from the masochistic parts I tore off and discarded. The ladder descends into a darkness that I know, that is familiar, that is mine.
Time to go deeper.
I don’t want you to know me. I don’t want you to see me naked. I don’t want you to see what I write, what I think, what I paint, what I am. It’s all so messy. It’s all without order, angles or lines. There’s no sense even when it’s in alphabetical order. I can’t see my way through and I stumble on what’s there. Battered books, wilting boxes and dying clutters of cluster-comb furniture. I sit in the midst of it all, cross-legged, a child at school assembly, at prayer. I watch the dust gather. Ashes of time, settled. Mice, rats and other vermin come out to play. Chew holes and leave their doings in soft, warm nests.
So, I clean. So, I tidy. So, I rearrange. And it does no good, serves no purpose.
Merely puts everything back in place to rot.
Torn apart again.
Epileptic convulsions take hold and go through the roof. Shatter-glass convexes push out into concave, buckle and twist, suck on your piss-teeth and shit out the cortexial-hot pain. Liquid burns the soles and the soul. Minute syringe holes hide the quantities imbibed, so settle down and sleep, it’ll be better tomorrow. Your muscles will stop speaking to you through the lacerated lips of dead schizoid children. Give us death, not the cortisone pump. Drag out my serotonin dose, make me strung out. I’d sooner be thin and listless than vital, alive and vile. Concrete floors crash and strike about our skulls and we see the cracks spreading through everything, leaving the preserve that is in us, in you, in him. It is the reanimator. The Giver of Strife. Makes us stagger and fall. Fools at perches over our uneven stalls. Buy from us. Take it away. Generous distribution of your life’s worth. Car boot sale of the soul, wrapped in plastic and antique newspapers. Sticking to fingers. Stenching up noses. Making eyes waterfalls. Use something else or different. The important thing is not to cure but to create the addict and tell him what to take. The point is not to kill god but to make him an absence that must be filled. Something’s missing. Idols required. Apply within. All fakers, no takers. Bestial army boys and football hooligans parade arm-in-arm down the streets. Let me take you by the hand. Not much to be done then but sit back, relax and shoot me up some dirt until I get the gut scratchings.
So near, yet so far.
So much is sadder than it should be. The axis upon which the world sits is not perfect - so does it tilt itself towards sadness? Does it favour grief and misery over the softer things? If you say no to this, is there a pause in your voice? Do you avert your eyes, even though there is no-one to avert them from? Do you think back to a private time that made you turn away from someone you should have held a hand out to, reached earnestly for?
I think so.
Because I do too.
So much is sadder than it should be and so much is unanswered.
Do you think so too?
I have nothing left to give.
You have used me up.
Dried me out.
******
As I walk my way into the upper depths of atmosphere, piercing the coal black with tears of
Unwanted.
This timeless state cannot go on and this knowledge makes me mourn a little. This anti-emotional purgatory is better than nothing and nothing is what I will return to. A world full of nothing for me. A century leaving me behind. I hear the hordes at the gates. The barbed wire rending at the big-high-tall fortifications. I am my own mason. I built myself in here. All the while telling myself that one day I would climb out, one day, one time, to look at a bright summer’s day.
Such a lie.
I left holes here and there, for a time, hoping someone might pass by. Look in, not see me, part of me, a length of carved-down plywood, a bloodied marionette string, strangled things that twitch out to death’s lonesome black signature tune. I fashion a ladder from the masochistic parts I tore off and discarded. The ladder descends into a darkness that I know, that is familiar, that is mine.
Time to go deeper.
I don’t want you to know me. I don’t want you to see me naked. I don’t want you to see what I write, what I think, what I paint, what I am. It’s all so messy. It’s all without order, angles or lines. There’s no sense even when it’s in alphabetical order. I can’t see my way through and I stumble on what’s there. Battered books, wilting boxes and dying clutters of cluster-comb furniture. I sit in the midst of it all, cross-legged, a child at school assembly, at prayer. I watch the dust gather. Ashes of time, settled. Mice, rats and other vermin come out to play. Chew holes and leave their doings in soft, warm nests.
So, I clean. So, I tidy. So, I rearrange. And it does no good, serves no purpose.
Merely puts everything back in place to rot.
Torn apart again.
Epileptic convulsions take hold and go through the roof. Shatter-glass convexes push out into concave, buckle and twist, suck on your piss-teeth and shit out the cortexial-hot pain. Liquid burns the soles and the soul. Minute syringe holes hide the quantities imbibed, so settle down and sleep, it’ll be better tomorrow. Your muscles will stop speaking to you through the lacerated lips of dead schizoid children. Give us death, not the cortisone pump. Drag out my serotonin dose, make me strung out. I’d sooner be thin and listless than vital, alive and vile. Concrete floors crash and strike about our skulls and we see the cracks spreading through everything, leaving the preserve that is in us, in you, in him. It is the reanimator. The Giver of Strife. Makes us stagger and fall. Fools at perches over our uneven stalls. Buy from us. Take it away. Generous distribution of your life’s worth. Car boot sale of the soul, wrapped in plastic and antique newspapers. Sticking to fingers. Stenching up noses. Making eyes waterfalls. Use something else or different. The important thing is not to cure but to create the addict and tell him what to take. The point is not to kill god but to make him an absence that must be filled. Something’s missing. Idols required. Apply within. All fakers, no takers. Bestial army boys and football hooligans parade arm-in-arm down the streets. Let me take you by the hand. Not much to be done then but sit back, relax and shoot me up some dirt until I get the gut scratchings.
So near, yet so far.
So much is sadder than it should be. The axis upon which the world sits is not perfect - so does it tilt itself towards sadness? Does it favour grief and misery over the softer things? If you say no to this, is there a pause in your voice? Do you avert your eyes, even though there is no-one to avert them from? Do you think back to a private time that made you turn away from someone you should have held a hand out to, reached earnestly for?
I think so.
Because I do too.
So much is sadder than it should be and so much is unanswered.
Do you think so too?
I have nothing left to give.
You have used me up.
Dried me out.
******
As I walk my way into the upper depths of atmosphere, piercing the coal black with tears of
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