Soft rain fell in a digital haze. The wet circuits of my mind sizzled. You could fry an egg off my manifold. Vulgar images of deep seeded need reflected in the forming puddles. They reached out to me from the asphalt like liquid phantoms. Their chatter was that of a broken radio aimlessly wandering through a static vortex of partiality – no solid signal, but merely the scratchy howls of distant outposts.
The rain decompressed me. I was conducted to sit within myself. No harsh daylight under this bruised sky. Precipitating tears nourished all things living. My brain bled, flushing the synapses. Misery dredged like a blanket of molten rock. It slid down the dark side of my mind like a lahar. I knew I was home for a moment. I pulled a pack of Marlboro reds from my jacket, popped the cellophane and drew a fresh stick to my lips. Lighter cracked and I sucked back knots of dusty suicide. I held my own hand down the corridor of death for no more than the funeral of self-esteem. No ribbons, no streamers, just a couple of drunks wearing party hats rambling about their ill-fated expeditions into the contest of wills. Dead soldiers propped in cruel arrangements against beach obstacles of concertina wire. Scarecrows to conceit that should serve as warnings to the astute.
I clatter through the great hall bumping tables and stealing drinks. They won’t mind – they’re dead. Packs of cigarettes and old Zippos litter the tables. I sit a while, making friends with a waxy stiff. I name him Gerald. He doesn’t say much. There are worms in his nose. Great white worms that leave trails of sparkling dust like breadcrumbs to a furnace. Me and my sister, fed by a witch. Could you blame her for our gluttony?
My neck creaks and my wings fold up. Demons bind them. They cut the tendons and crack the bones. I incinerate my memories like polaroids and step out onto the ledge. Sadomasochistic acts of deviance ark at the impact point of angels like lighter flints in my eyes – dull and raw like torn flesh versus city streets.