Kill the Lights, Kiss the Night

 

The city throbs fluorescent arteries,
pulses a slow moving slurry of meat
and metal phased by traffic signals
dealing dime bags to junkies
queuing to snort lines on the way home.
                        (can you blame them when home is an empty advent calendar?)

Somewhere, buildings huddle,
sleep deprived witnesses
to a luminous war of words.
Lidless eyes reflecting
and absorbing the brilliance
of mad men and their billboards.
                     (all strung out on incandescent addiction)

Shop windows shatter
secret lives and peace
when they pierce dull corners
with photons ricocheted off eyes
of pedestrian lice.

The sleepless writhe in perpetual day,
eyes dry and blistered, weeping
and waiting for the cool tongue of night

Sleep, borrowed in pinches
                         (and paid back in bags)
from narrow gaps
between howls and hysteria,
furrowed away
in the creases of red-rimmed lids.

They pray for a new plague
                                       (the fools)
for a creeping tide of black ants
to devour the dreams
of their bright-eyed pestilence.
                       (kill the light! kiss the night!)

And when it comes,
                           (hallelujah!)
when grids flounder
ground between the teeth
of the ravenous,

the sleepless will remain so,
imprisoned in whimpering closets
and under mattress ceilings
armed and waiting for the unseen
feet of intruders.
                  (kiss the night good night!)

8 thoughts on “Kill the Lights, Kiss the Night

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  1. I killed the lights. I die in the night. A little bit each one. The moon sets differently. I sit the same. My city shitty, full of knobs. My achy heart embalms, and my consciousness throbs. Trapped in a steel inner tube of deluge for public display. I am my own meat slurry Schadenfreude. I killed the lights. Every last one. Even the sun. Forever a derelict heathen, an unwanted son. I die in the night. And I just repeat. There are no stars to reach. I killed the lights. The warmth is a facade. Life is the cold vein, that has rubbed me raw. The city throttles the once throbbing army of arteries of a boy turned to stone. A crooked smile and mop of hair bewildered into the unknown. Deadened lips cut from words too sharp and only a sachet of black soot pours out, as this is all he can muster. The iridescence has died out in the endless blackness and the pulses are impalpable in a reckoning of a broken down piece of middle aged malcontent. The traffic in my mind is as doped up as the dopamine of a dope dealer dealing junkies jurisprudence in the highest of times. Let me give you another hit on the broken boulevard of red lights that are the blackness of my eyes. Home is where the heretic hangs. The eternal fire in which I burn. I didn’t have to pick the lock to get in, I am a hell fire and brimstone hall of famer. Their best customer. Roll out the red flaming carpet so I can dig my dirty and stained toes plush because there are no more days left on my calendar. Just an abysmal abyss. A hum. That is what life is when it turns into purgatory. It just hums, and I am here for the long haul. The huddled masses and the crass life I lived. The witnesses testify and I am winless. There is no sleep in between the buried rubble of buildings in these war of words. There are no reflections or inflections, just a mad man and his source of infection. Hang him from the billboard and let the judgment suck you in. A life photo shopped in a blood stained window of christianity, we hope you burn well and may there be no peace in your secret life. All the posh people pass, and pierce the pedestrian one last time, as the dullness sets in full stop, and the coroners from every corner squeeze out every last photon while i writhe in my perpetual emptiness. I killed the lights. I die in the night. I am sleepless and the community wants me to skedaddle. My thoughts and presence are like lice and I’m beheaded in the gallows. A loser in perpetuity, perpetually blistered for words I speak. Weeping with a life waning, the severed tongue is loose on the street dancing in the night. I wish someone would pinch me, and let me know this life is not real–gaps in my paychecks, howls from the coyotes, and a furrowed brow of steel. My black plague is preyed upon as I lay rotting. The bullet ants are marching, as the devourer of my dreams. I am just a pest, for whom there is no RAID or aid. No angel will swoop like pestilence as the bastardized arch angel simply fades. I killed the lights. Every last one. I flounder around in the sea of obscurity when it comes. The marred mariner lost and shunned. Salted in the Black Sea, a return to the open womb. Ravenous teeth, so infected are my wounds. The night is as sleepless as the white squalls, as their salinity slams shut any divinities. I am imprisoned for eternity to this buoy of false hope. The buoy dings. The man hums. A whimpering of disarmament, I am the dead in the calm. I die in the night. I killed the lights. Every last one. The man in the tower is no more. The echo of the intruder just hums.

    Liked by 1 person

    1. There are no stars, never were, just hope sparking like flint amongst the endless black. And that’s what we do, rub ourselves raw against the cold truth of steel that we might ignite a light, somewhere, anywhere. Anhedonia, queen of the damned, snuffs them out as quickly as we make them, turns days into open fields, hills flatlined with no view of tomorrow, just the endless green of want scorched to brown, fainting pale and breathless beneath a cling film sky. My tears, indistinguishable from the condensation, gather on plastic sheets, the same that cover couches and when I’m gone you’ll be able to wipe them down like I was never here at all. Even night offers no reprieve. Entranced by the tick tock monotony of a black box narrative I recount recordings of every (miss)step, echo accusations of sins and condemnation scored in lines inside my eyelids. It’s worse because I can still remember when it wasn’t always this way, like when I flew as a magpie and nested on pages, like when I wore a warm shawl of piggy backed kids and our mouths were always open but now their arms wrap a garrote pulled tight by laughter. My mouth is closed, stale, sour. Words, once strung like pearls around my throat fall as breadcrumbs on carpet and even the mice aren’t hungry.
      We played once, ran with scissors and laughed at the carnage. You shone for me and I had eyes for it. I still watch the sky, wait for you to burn a hole through that metal and tell me you found a way out.

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