Rantings and Ravings

I just want it out of me. I just want these words to stop pounding at the back of my eyes and distracting me and making me fall in love with every little picture and line and quip and piece of poetic license that I run across that tugs at my heart. I love them like I should love those close to me. They are my amplification of the ways that I don’t understand how to feel. They are more a part of me than any one living or dead. They speak and call to me in old lover pillow talk magic. Those fucking words. I have them — or rather, they have me. I am their window to the outside world. They wish to be born and when the birth canal is soft and warm they pull themselves up by their bootstraps and let go and come to my fingertips and bang bang bang bang I can’t get them out fast enough. I can’t slake my thirst. I can’t defeat these metronome hunger pains that tick-tock that begs me to let them live; to give them breath; to get them out of that conduit of fleshy gray that keeps them imprisoned like fantastic leather-bound tome refugees.

You’re taking up space, man, in this heady quick world of kickshot hearts. And the taste of blood is stirring on your lips but you’re too busy wondering what that sound is and what it means and how long it’s going to drag the feeling out of your ears. You’re alive on the ground and slick-shoed and wet from a three-foot tongue that doesn’t let you stand up straight because your knees were too wobbly to begin with. You sinful guru, you heart attack, I’ve got your number pasted to my bathroom door and it’s been staring me in the face for days and the push button phone with it’s insecure plastic numbers and it’s throaty red bell has been taunting me with acid on the receiver. So what if you picked up the phone and let the knives come streaming out of your throat and I caught them in my catcher’s mitt of an ear? What if I moved just right and you fell apart on the floor like so many pieces of shattered glass and clay pigeons and pieces of red tree, round robin fornication? How about that? Because, I can see your silvery veins and the Velcro that holds your face on, and the twin valves that punch through your chest and drip ink on the page in front of you. I’m your voice, man and you’ve got it, you’ve got it, man, and ain’t nobody gonna take that away from you, ain’t nobody gonna take me away from you, we’re stuck like glue, man and your rubber skin means that I’m not the only one hiding in these bushes, I’m not the only sing-song bastard playing harpsichord with the devil. But you, man, you’ve got it. You’ve got those house slipper blues, and the turncoats are coming and you know what, who cares? Because when they find you, they’ll open you up and all they’ll find is an old Victrola playing the same record over and over in that cavity, and a candelabra made of dusty rib bones.