chasmcalling #6

let the day begin without me again. I’ve lost my way along this sullied topographic nightmare - this road - I’ve begged at its gutter too long. so long, I’ve forgotten for what I beg. let this sun climb without me again. a searing, cutting path over a world that has become strange to me in the worst way.

before, it was just simple perversion. the sort that’s borne from the popular…the sickness of nescience. I forget so easily what it took for me to get here. this blind disfigured consensus of my head. my city. my species. 

my sense of balance is absorbed by my anger. and, in turn, all the anger in my bones is consumed by cobwebs. clothed in dust and used nicotine.

yet, the corpses still celebrate their philosophies of waste that spawn & mutate all about this imbalanced, problematic consortium of life. this America; lost to its toothy anachronisms. and I can’t help but feel like I’m skulking my way to the top of the pile. the grand pyre-in-waiting. so, everyday’s a gem until the wells finally fucking dry up forever?

the napalm Colorado sunset reclaims me. so much later in the salty-wet throes of summer. unlock me with your liquid key, I’m in the market for renascence. I’ll claw my way through a thousand dead moths to intercept it. the sway of slow-slide on steel strings guides me. down the new bridge to the old road. my words flutter, like the moths, around the streetlamp citrus glow. stinging throat smoke call. swill & fill, the flush hours small. 

snap. twist. glide.

I lead the chase with cheap cola and heartburn. Evan Williams will always find sanctuary in the rotting hostel of my gut, but he’ll leave no room for the rational…my logical intruders. the minimum wage fake savior sycophants. they’ll only get my burning cigarette eye fuck you. my sour-mash swallowed so what’s.

let this night keep me in its clutches, as I pass the bottle to nobody. let this liquor-fire in my cheated chest answer all of these ghosts that call to me in their silty voices. hoarse. grey. resigned. voices that scurry from the throats of the most horrible surrender. 

my world is a princess in a shredded burgundy dress. a rose left bereft under a sun that only desires the gift of warm rot. my world is that of balancing a ruby upon a steaming mound of shit.