I reached my hand out,
an outline of flesh against off-white walls,
in a familar way in a familiar place.
An unfamiliar absence became,
and sat beside me,
strummed the chords of my
lonely, lonely
heart.
It wept for me,
as I could not weep for myself
in an empty place with ony my demons
for company.
It cried tears onto my shoulders
and I raised my head towards the ceiling,
an expression of understanding
and lament for all the lost days.
What loneliness is this
which slinks through the shadows
as a thief
to steal away all hope and desire,
and as an assasin
to fatally end any promise of action?
Some voids aren't meant to be filled
and maybe that's the secret in all of this;
the alpha and the omega,
there is always void.
Never more so than in this moment,
now,
which only lives in a void that can never be
connected to the past of the future,
it can only bump shoudlers with them.
Every moment lives in a cage,
like a soul is caged in a body,
and nobdy ever makes it out of here to
touch
anyone else elses' soul.
The water falls out in drops
that slap me gently,
making me blink,
and bead down my exposed face
and uncovered body.
Something runs away with the water
and it will never return,
each drop of water claws into some
memory
and tugs it down the drain
until I am left fighting to hold onto
anything that mattered
once upon a time.
The familiar numbness is revealed,
licking its lips and
waiting just behind me with extended fangs and nails
it waits for the final day when
the ultimate nothingness
replaces the human nothingness
and I join the infinite space of existence.
Nothing matters as the water
drains soul from my body
as acid eats glass
slow
steady
unforgiving.
Water pushes and pulls
unforgiving and unyeilding
and its effects never end.
It treks onward
one slow, methodical, step at a time
or charges head-long into the abyss,
but never stops.
Water, like time itself,
smoothens the inanimate
while eating and crimping the organic
until it bends or moulds all to its will.
love,
love and its loss,
also eats the organic in a slow decay
unmerciful and not quite complete,
the slow appetite becomes tolerable
in time.
Nothing grows in this frost
and
everything breaks
without respite or hope
it will heal.
The bleeding also stops though,
and while limbs and pieces
fall apart and change
the core remains intact,
even its rotten guts.
I don't want to wait this long
and I just want to see us there
but there is nowhere else.
home was an ideal stuck in my head,
a memory desperately avoiding my swopping claws
and razor-sharp beak.
Home is still evasive,
a ghost among dunes of sand and mounds of bone,
something far enough to be blurry but not yet forgotten.
What I always seemed to want –
the nomadic physical life –
to go along with the spiritual nomad inside me,
has vacated me of feeling alive.
I regained my old home
temporarily
with old tricks and
an old way of being –
your soul bounced on me with
such violence and affection and I
exploded
back to life.
This leaving means nothing to some
And everything
For me.
Its not a matter of missing or
Loving
Or the sorrow that sits in the pit
Of your guts and waits
To break out.
Life happens while I sit
Still
And obsolete.
No longer the wanted one
And
Haven’t been
For years basically
But that’s what life delivers
In between the cracks of progress.
We mirror our culture:
Bored with everything
Constantly needing the new
Never wanting to sit and wait
Or taking the time to explore the familiar,
And that’s modern love.
Worthless
Broken
And idling at the curb with
no chance of salvation.
Nobody picks up the strays,
They find their way to the
Trash
And we continue moving forward
Even the trash.
Some lives were not meant for glory
And some are
Meant for much less
But we live all the same.
It starts somewhere in your guts, and then it shoots through your frame like 1501 volts. It began as a faint drumming in your heart, a marching band filling in for an army. arrows sticking out of their pelt drums and occasinally, into their torn biceps or calf muscles.The drumming begins without worry for loss of life or the wounded, and everyone drums somehow. A rag-tag band of the dying become something more, and the wrath of love has removed the plagues in their hearts somehow. Occasionally a train needs to slap you at full speed and punch you through reality to force change. There is only healing left to do, as long as there is living to be done, and we all must plnt one foot, one toe at a time, into the ground. We must use the drums as shields in the phalanx, bands together in our soul and march. There is never a goal, but march on. Life is a journey, and the march is all that matters.
We make ghosts of our mistakes, and our guilt is powerful enough to hammer us straight through the ground with one fel swing. There is no escape for those dancing within a nail, and no salvation for the generation of big kids. All the big-ass winners dance in clubs contained in the shaft of a nail, waiting to get their head struck.
The hammer always comes down in retribution, and occasionally, by chance, but it always comes down. It's not the law of gravity, it is the law of the absolute.Love does not play in karma, as god does not roll dice, and love will strike you down like the lone tree on a hill in a hurricane.
The force that hits the hammer does not grip the wrong shaft, it is not human. The inhuman, immaterial power defines the law of humanity. Wo/Man forgets what does not suit him, and sprinkles around the facts that do, until he trips and loses his face from his own webs. What good is a face for the soulless, and what use is thief in a world of NOTHING.
It's dark in the cave, and it's too humid. Sweat mixes with the dew from the depths of some awful place. You never really broke a sweat. Indifference clapped you down like the weight of a galaxy, then and now.
Andy Veilleux 