2015.05.26: An ode to finding closure while on drug$

It is something like black magic being erased through all the years, burned out with acid. You try to forget but always, some days, you will wake up and reach for a soft bed of ashes that lay next to you. Fingers buried in soft gray, dreams and nightmares entangled. Worst fears and greatest hopes, not even there. Who wrote that sad song?  Melody remembered only when you are asleep. Then you shake yourself, just a dream, but the earth shakes with you. Whose grief was that? Regret for unspoken or unspoken regret? I know which is truer. I do not want to get better. Watching the world burn with only a memory in pictures. When the wind blows I will hear a whisper. If the sky unlocked, unrolled like so much parchment, why would I be afraid? I loved you, and for a time it made it better.

Dinner

Hair, I am thinking after shaving, I hate hair. I feel incredibly grateful for whomever created laser hair removal, and further still grateful for the creative bastard who came up with a home device for such a purpose. I use the device on my abs, my legs, my chest, loving the results. I watch the city far below me, vibrant, dead and alive, like a corpse left in the sun, fetid, being feasted on. I ignore the texts from that whore I used to love and get ready to go out to dinner at a 1-Michelin Star restaurant with my sister and her husband. Once there, some crazy black woman with a mohawk takes our jackets and hangs them up and gives me the tag. I nod my thanks to her and stare with longing at my CK jacket as she handles it roughly, like a jacket. We eat, and there is conversation, interspersed with my sister's husband's disconcerting and odd sense of humor, which makes me laugh but is totally inappropriate, mostly sex jokes about my sister. The pace of dinner slows, and across the room, I notice an old white man with two beautiful women. He must be sixty, the women a third of that. Rage fills the cavity in my chest until I see that the blonde one is staring at me. I am noticeable; I am in shape, my hair is perfect. I look GQ, and this is a disguise, but she does not know that, she knows none of it as I stare at her and her eyes meet mine. I tilt my head to the side, and time slows as I stare into her green eyes, so familiar even though I have never met her. Time freezes, I stare alternately at her and her perfect figure and the steak knife on my table. The moment ends, and I stare out of the window at the cold world below and around, the wind must be screaming, and so must I.

Feedback

"Listen," I say, irritation, hot and choking, building in my chest, "I cannot make this more clear: you make me want to choke small animals."
This beatuiful woman across from me, peasant-drunk, giggles and slumps, her breasts almost come out of her silk dress, something that must be by Roberto Angelico, I must have paid for this, I wonder how much, but I do not care enough to ask. "Darling, you are far too rigid." Her voice is cultured, reminds me of someone from the past, it has a European cast to it.
"Fuck you," I snap, and she says something cute, like, 'later tonight, maybe you will', but we both know I will, there is no doubt in this, the moon is blood red somewhere over the sands of the middle east, and some Bedouins must sense that I am loose, the Beast is loose and raging amongst the people, and songs of tribes drift up against the crimson moon to no avail, I will satiate my lust and rage on this poor, pitiful bitch sitting here across from me. Some might call me shallow, some might call me evil, some might love me, but none know me except the dead, none but the dead know my true smile. This realization hacks its way into my chest, and I slump, exhausted and agonized, into my chair. I consider taking the Vyvanse that is in my pocket to perk me up, but I am sick of false happiness, even the prospect of dropping some X later does little to cheer me, as I know the comedown will result in bloodsplatters. Remember the motto, I think savagely, acidly. Cumsplatter or bloodsplatter, either way I am taking that.
"Babe," she says, grabbing my hand, and I want to sever her own hand at that instant, see the death of two colliding planets, and shoot a homeless man in the face, all at the same time; I am an adventurous soul. "Babe, look. We need to move forward."
"We will move forward," I say rigidly.
"I'm serious," she whines. "Let's go on a cruise. You have a boat."
I agree, not listening anymore, I think only of stabbing her with my sharpened anchor and dropping her over the side of my yacht, watching her sink. Watch her sink in agony and terror, and she will finally understand me.
"Can you swim well?" I ask her suddenly, cutting off her drunken rambling.
"Almost drowned in her pussy so I swam to her butt," she says, looking at me boldly, and then she winks. Her use of these lyrics almost makes me vomit, my vision swims with rage.
"I find your feedback to be worse than useless," I tell her through gritted teeth.

A Dead Woman

Once, Michael saw, by himself, something that terrified him. It was a gorgeous, windy, half-golden day, the leaves swirled in mystic patterns along the concrete path that he jogged on. He wore some Express skinny slacks, cutoff just above the knee, and a $200 Christian Dior thermal, grey, pushed up on his veined forearms. His hair was lengthening, and it bounced on his forehead, blew in the cold wind. He wore some Polo slip-ons for shoes. The sun danced in and out of dark grey clouds, and a dead woman stood far ahead of him in the middle of the jogging path.

She wore an old-fashioned Victorian-looking dress, covered in bright flowers. Her shoes were high-heeled white boots. She carried her Brightly smiling head in her right hand by the hair. Her neck was pale; her throat–hole was turning white, the skin was jagged, and purple veins drooped over the edge of her neck. There was no blood. Her hair was dark and beautiful, and her eyes were bright blue, opened wide, and she was smiling with vampire teeth. She grinned at him, and he kept running toward her, his hands clenched, his face twitching, her beautiful curls blew around her eyes, and he watched himself run closer in her eyes, her sharp teeth gleaming, she must have had her teeth whitened before she removed her head. He stopped about thirty feet from her, the wind picked up and her hair blew in front of her face again, covering her eyes, but her grin continued.

The wind dropped and her eyes were visible then, as bright as mirrors, as Bright as tombstones. He observed his own powerful form in her eyes. He stopped about thirty feet from her. He calmed himself and focused on her eyes. She did not move for a long time, and neither did he.

Summertime Blues;

I begin the summer on a good note, and this is a fraud, a snaking, sneaking trick. I go shopping for clothes that are far too expensive because they are far too expensive. I take a helicopter trip to Arizona for two days with a blonde hardbody whose name I have forgotten, but whose brain (both senses) I have not. The nights, mostly spent outdoors either on Mount Charleston or at pools behind mansions in Anthem Highlands, are warm as blood, and this pleases me greatly. The days, overcast yet still too bright, are spent sleeping in blackness, vague snatches of dreams that could be nightmares but it does not matter flickering behind my eyelids. It causes me to let my guard down, a brutal mistake, I realize halfway into June, covered in blood and my eyeballs aching from the cocaine I am nearly overdosing on. I hate cocaine; any other drug except for skunk-weed will sate my need to get plastered, and yet here I am. Skin too sensitive, I can feel the blood (not mine, of course) drying on my bare chest and face, I cannot feel my gums, and, most distressing of all, the drain has caused me to begin to swallow convulsively. It is not at all an enjoyable feeling; my irritation at this sensation has, no doubt, caused me to do what I have done, standing nude over something that is crimson and torn and meaty, something that I vaguely remember as being beautiful before the start of this evening. What had caused this? I debate with myself aloud in calm tones for a quarter of an hour, making verbal jousts with myself, conceding points and flexing so hard that my calf cramps, I cry out and sit on the couch and weep for my terror and pain for a few minutes, then go over to the window, gaze out over this terrible city, Ciabola, and I begin to laugh, I have always known the summertime blues owned me during the warmer months, but I have never accepted it, as winter's finest is bound to be prideful.

The Worst Part

The worst part, I think, is the constant monotony. There are no realistic changes or challenges. The world, vast and empty, has become a haunted mansion, gray, with splashes of bright crimson. I weep silently in empty rooms, and echoes drift off to silence. There is, or will be, someday, a gigantic dead tree, magnificent, beatiful, and terrifying in its endless sorrow. I can relate. How emo my thoughts must sound, I muse, and think that the irony must be delicious. Emotions would be welcome, if I could deal. Deal, I think as I drop a tab of acid and throw the beautiful woman's arm off of my leg, I cannot. I drink down the tab of acid with diet coke and stare out the window over that cursed city beneath me, spread out like a cancer sore.
"Can I have a hit?" the woman asks me, and I do not look at her, I wave a dismissive hand, I do not care.

: the killer.

I figure that there is some sort of transaction out there that could make me feel some sort of positive emotion, a half-hearted, wistful figure, but I do not really believe this. I believe that the closest I can come to a genuine positive is the false happiness of drugs. Genuine falsehood.
Why, I could live forever on an acid trip in six hours.
Ruminating about these things does not help my pain, and I whimper in my bed of silk, sweat-damp sheets. My guts twist, contort themselves into painful shapes and I snarl at the walls, scream at them for hours as I writhe, before finally forcing myself into the shower, where I sit underneath the hot spray and weep, and play with a dismembered hand from two days ago. I see from my tiny view the way that things are, as far as anyone could go, that this is all just people. People make up the world, and I want it all ended. Every. Last. Bit. God is an invention to justify our murderous impulses toward eachother. Sex is an outlet for rage. Love; elusive. Pain a motivator. Define being or life; both can be ended at the end of a dull knife. There is no safety in this knowledge, I decide, and slip on some black silk shorts to work out in before heading to work. There is no safety in anything but being the one thing the rest of the world will always hate and fear: the killer.