Monday, September 22, 2008

Falling Water.

This is where I meet myself.
Safe in the smell of the wet forest and cold stream melodies.
We can relax here.
We can open up.
Under falling water.
We light the fire.

"Whisky? Wine?
I think a red.
"Red it is.

You can see what it looks like can't you. Here by the fire.

The leather chairs by the slate fire place and the shag rug and the room is dimmed so the light of the fire dances voodoo on the walls around us and shadows jump and dash as they follow the tone of our conversation.

Red light danger /
white light belief /
no light as we kick ourselves in the guts, and tell each other we're out of Hope.

But there's a big log by the fire.

And Hell, it's gonna burn all night long.

"Someone gets angry at you, they think they have a right to cut you out cut you all the way down.

Maybe they do. Don't they?

"Yeah, maybe.

Everyone has a fucking right to not get hurt.

"Which means I do too

Yeah. Which means I do too.

I take a sip.

"What you think it's really about, as in, underneath? Those stupid messages?

I don't know. Reassurance. Fear. Something weak like that. Nothing that sounds good when you write about it.

"You like to write a drama, huh?

I guess. Long time since I've been funny. Maybe I wrote myself into it.

"And what about all the pretty?

Pretty? What makes you say pretty?

"I don't know. You're almost terrified of it. You almost hate it.

I think about that.

Pretty's a dream just before you wake up.
Pretty's dreaming of three impossible things you want to do before noon.
Pretty's a lie too you know.
But it's pretty.

"So you don't believe in it?

I don't know.
I wanted to.
But I'm at my prettiest
when I don't.

I think about that too.

I miss the pretty. All of it.

The fire, the fire, the fire.

We sit and stare at it. I let it burn the sentimentality from my heart. I let it burn my heart. But I don't feel a thing. I just lie back in the leather and stare bemused at the flames which leap from my chest. There are burning photos in my shirt pocket. I see the faces on fire as the edges curl and bring them closer to themselves. People always seem to get closer to themselves. As though I am an example. A dead end street which they laugh about later on their journey, once they're back on the road, marked on the map.

Although, there are other things I know too.

"You don't know what to believe, do you?


No, I don't.

I know the wrongs and I know the misunderstood rights.
I know I will accept the self flagellation to a degree that I deserve it -
but I know other things too.
Double standards
held high by princes
riding black ponies
as they watch the fray
from the side of the field.
Reasons to do this
so close to the escape hatch
just trying to find the trigger
the switch
you left it here
in the trash
must be you're an evil bastard
must be you're a cunt
(God, I wanted this way out - I wanted to look for it - I needed to hate you)

You needed to hate me?

Yeah maybe.

Who's to say what is right anymore.
The loudest prettiest voice sets the level of hurt, seems anyway.
I'm sure there's a raft of words floating down that river which leads to a brighter tomorrow.

At least I try to say the right things about people.
When they're not around.

"You think that's gonna get you into Heaven?

Doubt it. Not in these shoes.

"I had something for you, anyway. Have something. It's here, beneath my fingers. I'm scared it's a tombstone now. A marker. A memorial to the void.

That was part of it, you know. Empty messages sent to empty nights to fill an empty frightened soul.

That's the part I thought you understood.
As the fire dies. And casts me into the shadow of the past.

"I'm losing you..."


I'm losing you.

But I can hear the sound of falling water as I fade into sleep.

And when the time comes

I will stand tall


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