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by Jason Blanco

 

Stuck in this thing

In this moment

Immense, imbued, neon-lit

Something like eruption without flow

Bodies without rest fall like buildings in September

                                              hearts in spring

                                              souls in chaos

Steel and asphalt needs do not bend

Even for supermen

You, with me, then

Satellites drifting farther into the sun than they should

Not me presently

But still they call me mad

                      call me criminal

                      call me user

                                   fool

                                   deceiver

                                   irredeemable

                                   unbelievable

They say I am a touch of crazy sewn into their skin

As if they were not complicit

As if copious amounts of me were not wholly holy sane

sober solid solemn scared scorned spurned spent

“Severed” – your word

“Stomped” would be mine

I was there, heard the rumble

The thuds of bodies hit the pavement

Saw you leave because I couldn’t

And that box of detritus you sent – yours and mine

with the note attached

Did not contain my heart

So I brought my own building down and still I feel

Here is where you should go

Now is where you should be

Me is what you should do

Me, myself and I’ll likely go underground

And likely find simplicity

Get to where I can hear a heartbeat coming

from miles away

To where no one can run fast enough

to catch up with me

Voices will become abstract, senseless

Inflection exposing intention

No baggage but the one:

that image, crude like a fifth-generation Xerox

Forever seared into me

of You layed down, splayed on wet sheets,

vapours rising from your dark salty body,

hovering like spirits, beckoning

No baggage but for ashes caught in my throat,

Burnt smoke imbedded in my retinas

Screams of men and shrill sirens becoming ambient over time

Collecting rhythm, becoming distant

But never gone

I’ll likely slip underground

Where it’s warm and quiet

Where Mondays and Sundays don’t exist

And there are no spins on anything

No prescription, addiction, friction, diction and

slavery is abolished

No blame game, hard rain, disdain, men slain

Movie stars, fancy cars, sports bars, world wars

Ages, cages, crazes, pages, wages, rages

Disapproving kin, screeching dins, suffering of sins

And none of you will ever move me again.