I knew something was wrong when you sent that text message at 3 o' clock
Nothing good ever happens at 3
When it's so dark you can't see the hands of the clock tick, tick, ticking a middle finger to the holy
Trinity
Father, Son, and Holy Shit you're scaring me with all this talk of becoming a ghost
And you said I'm sorry I just don't know how much longer I can go on
With this static, with this butterfly beating in my ear like I'm the cocoon it could never break free from
This flaky husk flecked with dust that's settled before its time
Can't you see I'm obsolete
And my warranty has expired?
Stop talking like that!
Cause if you're obsolete
Then I'm selfish.
And if keeping you alive is my last desperate wish.
Then I'll flick a rusted penny made from your eyelid into a wishing well
and wish you well
and wish whatever hell you feel trapped in
would melt away
and that's all well and good
But this noose has already been tied
By hands other than mind
And knots tied by other hands
Can never be untied
So let me be the chair you stand on in your final moments
And I promise no matter how hard you kick I will not let you fall
I'll stand long enough for you to realize
That the scissors in your hand could cut the rope all along
It's ironic how scissors are like butterflies
Cutting their way through cocoons, cutting their way through a noose
A rope woven chrysalis you could only break free from by breaking your neck
Counting down the infinitesimal seconds from the slack of string to the crack of spine
Can't you see your life is just a parallel of mine?
A universe where we say goodbye for the last time?
I wish I could be there each time they fish you out of the bathtub.
Or pump your stomach of the cure you turned into poison.
When did living life become poison?
When did taking it become a cure?
When did living life become poison?
When did taking it become a cure?
And I wish I could Peter Pan away the age in your eyes that says
Your time has come
And remind you of childish things.
Of our seesaw.
The one you broke.
The one that screamed up and whispered down.
The one you rode backwards.
Riding a seesaw backwards makes it hard to see eye to eye.
So stop acting like you're so ready to go.
Stop being such an asshole.
So stay.
Please?
For me?
Friday, May 4, 2012
The Day I Killed God-- Jay Morris
I was brought up on strict lessons
And brave stories
Of desert nomads wandering purposefully
Like a sandstorm army
To follow the wind the wind as it carried the words
Of their God
I was raised on victorious trumpets
And heralding angels singing praises
Of he who was and is and is to come
Old, yellow, cracked scriptures
Were ground up like powder
And steeped into my drink
So I could partake
In a communion
That I knew little of
But considered slightly
Vampiric
For years I prayed at the altar of God
And bore the cross of Jesus
And prayed and prayed and prayed
Until my lips had become
So accustomed
To the words that they poured out
Like second natured spells
When the going got rough
It was during one of these moments of
Mindless incantation
That I heard a distant howling in the waves
That penetrated my eardrums
Vibrating the desperate message
Know me. Need me. Love me. Remember me.
That voice was instantly familiar to me
And I turned away out of disgust
That this the omnipotent could beg me for
My prayers, my struggle, my love
I turned away form this being that was
Seeking relevance through me
And cast his dull pleading roar to the airwaves
To be drowned out by the sounds of early morning radio
And late night television
I starved and emaciated him till he was little more
Than the rattle of bones reluctant to get out of bed
And the erratic snowflake beating of moth wings
Before their inevitable plunge into the fire
And in his final moments
I saw the five stages of divine grief
The denial of Peter
The anger of El Shaddai
The bargaining of Jesus
The depression of Satan
And
The acceptance of Jehovah Shalom
All at once in animal screams
And angel shrieks
At the power of an ego suddenly impressing upon him the reality
Of his own transparency
And weakness
Like a machine suddenly aware of its design flaws
Outdated and obsolete
Outdated and wholly incomplete
Trapped in the fabric of our memory
Like a stain
That fades
Over time
And I put my hand on his shoulder
And told him to remember his grace
Closing my eyes, willing us both to let go
As I whisper.
"Can you hear that, God?
Can you hear the human soul?
Can you hear the sound of it fending for itself,
weathering the storm?
Can't you see that's the holiest part?"
The will of instinct...as we close our eyes
And feel his dying breath drowned out by the sound of
Late night radio
And
Early morning television
And pledge to remember him as a time of day
When fairy tales are told, and challenged, and shelved
And placed into childish memory boxes.
And brave stories
Of desert nomads wandering purposefully
Like a sandstorm army
To follow the wind the wind as it carried the words
Of their God
I was raised on victorious trumpets
And heralding angels singing praises
Of he who was and is and is to come
Old, yellow, cracked scriptures
Were ground up like powder
And steeped into my drink
So I could partake
In a communion
That I knew little of
But considered slightly
Vampiric
For years I prayed at the altar of God
And bore the cross of Jesus
And prayed and prayed and prayed
Until my lips had become
So accustomed
To the words that they poured out
Like second natured spells
When the going got rough
It was during one of these moments of
Mindless incantation
That I heard a distant howling in the waves
That penetrated my eardrums
Vibrating the desperate message
Know me. Need me. Love me. Remember me.
That voice was instantly familiar to me
And I turned away out of disgust
That this the omnipotent could beg me for
My prayers, my struggle, my love
I turned away form this being that was
Seeking relevance through me
And cast his dull pleading roar to the airwaves
To be drowned out by the sounds of early morning radio
And late night television
I starved and emaciated him till he was little more
Than the rattle of bones reluctant to get out of bed
And the erratic snowflake beating of moth wings
Before their inevitable plunge into the fire
And in his final moments
I saw the five stages of divine grief
The denial of Peter
The anger of El Shaddai
The bargaining of Jesus
The depression of Satan
And
The acceptance of Jehovah Shalom
All at once in animal screams
And angel shrieks
At the power of an ego suddenly impressing upon him the reality
Of his own transparency
And weakness
Like a machine suddenly aware of its design flaws
Outdated and obsolete
Outdated and wholly incomplete
Trapped in the fabric of our memory
Like a stain
That fades
Over time
And I put my hand on his shoulder
And told him to remember his grace
Closing my eyes, willing us both to let go
As I whisper.
"Can you hear that, God?
Can you hear the human soul?
Can you hear the sound of it fending for itself,
weathering the storm?
Can't you see that's the holiest part?"
The will of instinct...as we close our eyes
And feel his dying breath drowned out by the sound of
Late night radio
And
Early morning television
And pledge to remember him as a time of day
When fairy tales are told, and challenged, and shelved
And placed into childish memory boxes.
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