blindside


we came out of death realizing we’d fucked up and left
the baby was only a few months old and it already was an orphan
hang by the crib, sing those pretty lullabyes but it still feels more indifferent
than that last kiss of ecstasy on the heroine’s lips
the tongue shot out in laughter, spilling the contents of an empty mouth
vomit this, i say, watching you writhe in blissful harmony on the cold cement
ceilings were meant to hold everything in when gravity couldn’t hold us down
when we couldn’t be lovebirds and we couldn’t just be friends
we couldn’t be the heroes save the skin of hollow men
who needed hearing aids just to hear our hearts beat and pump out the darkness
who needed bifocals to see just what was in the mirror, slightly beyond our
uncompromising comprehension; that was the final death blow from the beginning
of the end to the molecules of oxygen at rest in our lungs, just after postmortem
still could hear the wicked man complementing you on your infirmities
when you drowned i still heard your singing of that infernal plastic synthetic tune
ravaged with discord and atonal white noise, when you drowned i still knew you couldn’t
hear me, couldn’t so much as listen when you had the ear, deaf once the nightingale shrill
pierced the thick membranes of the twilight fog; because then we were younger
then we were summertime in bloom; then we were crazy and mischievous angels of doom
we as children would play our youth for the fool, til it left us behind and made headway
into the next generation of our self-cloning; that memory left us pining for what we had
lost, because then we were younger, then life was a sugarcoated wonder, innocent enough
to plunder without cause, break into freedom and out of reality’s jaws
with frail sticky hands we’d lick the wounds that blended with our tanned flash
lick them til they bled again, for the blood was so sugary-sweet
because children play youth til they drool; saliva drawn down to the chin
so sue us if we didn’t care enough to wipe it, so blame us if we couldn’t wipe off the grin
what a perfect myth - the raging river of ‘what if’
for just as we had begun to fall in love with it, adolescence grabbed us by the throat and
tamed the soul that was once so animal
but after the afterbirth of our union, gave up and flushed existence down the toilet with
the piss we’d been shot up with throughout adulthood - flushed it out, the sewers claimed
our scabs and bandages, our plagues and syringes, our pinholed thrusts into oblivion,
ravaged with discord and atonal background static waves, unfeeling, unchecked, unliving
until we touched the heat of ignorance, sitting on lawn chairs out by the moon, the dark
side, looking out to space and realizing we’d fucked up and there was no turning back
because we’d already forgotten how it all began




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