A little marinara sauce won't make it taste better; a twist of lemon won't flourish it either. That refreshing mint rush he's always fancied absorbed in by his lungs, burning up his nostrils, shortening his breath, cutting out air. Mint justice. It all goes down to this. He flips a coin and waits for his fate to decide. The earl grey, the marinara sauce, the lemon twist and the mint... they won't make it any better. They all have the bitter after-taste. He rips out his tongue, thinking that life can be a little bearable then, and he stuffs it into a dossier along with his bad necks and hard disk failures and heartbreaks and heart strokes and shaky hands and sleepless nights and stashes it all under his bed, hoping that making them visually inaccessible will make things alright after all. Then he pulls out another folder where he keeps his souvenirs of the loved and lost and places it carefully under his pillow make-believing that once his eyes are shut his dreams would come true, even for a one night stand, but they never do. He breaks into a classical moment of truth. Another cliché to throw in to the wind, the wind that hates him, that carries those restless clichés and throws them into his eyes and through his mind along with the rest of his remains of a breathing being. A mobster with a cigar being put out in his chest. A princess walking out his door, saying that she loves him, lying flinchless. A turtle carrying him towards his destiny and a god sending him signs to exit, and every time he follows the signs he finds the door locked. Drink up, pretty boy. Temptations and seductions are the elements of life appreciation without which we'd have been ungrateful to the al mighty... it's what separates us from the rest of the beasts, what gives us the will not to howl at the moon. He's ready for bed now, places the silver pennies on his eyes before they shut just in case he never wakes up again, at least then he'd have paid off his dues... however, he wakes up and his dues still stand tall, and so he begs for more. He can absorb his morning caffeine like shattered glass engraved in his skull, asking him to grieve the death of common sense. He carves it in like morning paper arbitraries, saying the best in him for strangers to mourn him and miss him. He hopes he's made them proud.

And that's all he fucking wrote...

Posted by Яαgιи Яαvєи on Thursday, August 17, 2006 at 8/17/2006 09:50:00 PM | Permalink