The world vanishes;
Everything is a gorgeous haze!
Nothing exists but the rush.
Bright, neon hues
Hot, sticky blood
A bat's firm handle
Yet abruptly, it's over.
The world returns in all its horrific, damp glory.
Corpses litter the floor.
I look at my messy hands.
This mask I wear is not just an identity,
It is my only identity.
I am no man.
I am an animal.
In pride of place on his desk is the phone. Worn, bright red, plastic. Obnoxious some might say. He knows it just makes it easier to find amidst the clutter. Scattered messages for the man upstairs surround it; hell need to sort those print-outs into the proper piles.
Born again Christian?
How many times?
Yes maam, that is
A legitimate question
We do have to
Ask this of all who want
To be reinstated a share
In this company
If you could hold please
And Ill patch you through
To the proper department
He finds a pockmark in the jarrah of his desk and wonders at the imperfection, fingers poised. The amount of times hes drummed his fingers over the surface (unimpre
the skip that comes with talking to strangers
the skip that tells me that I’m strapped into the rollercoaster, ready or not for the ride.
You answered, and your voice was like a cave,
deep and warmish and mossy
with echoes trapped inside the dark spaces
like a cave to keep me safe from the storm.
I spoke to you and my own voice was like cobblestones,
cracked and scattered
strewn out across a much-trodden road and kicked into the gutter,
like cobblestones with missing bits, crumbling from the elements.
You told me that things would get better from here on out,
that I’d made the first step and
that you would talk to me for as long as it took to get me from one place to another one
or longer, even.
You spoke to me about large things
responsibility and Ferris wheels and distant nebulas
you spoke to me about small things
garden mice and sub-atomic particles and how many spoonfuls of sugar you take with your tea.