In Memorandum.

I died last night.

The crows pierced the clouds overhead and the stars fell in and I died. Glistening veins pouring like a river, slinking over time-worn bones and the worms. Breeding, bursting, popping inside like crackling wood. Fires of love and life smoldered to a slow smoky trail of ashes. A blinding light, trailing over fingers, twitching as they curl under for the last time. Cold steel divides the line between flesh and meat, extracting my insides. Questioning the manner in which I passed. Burning skin twisting in the flames as it chars into dust.

Let me join my brothers.

Ahead is green. Seeping into the risk of me. Breathing for me. Being me. Thoughts faded and irrelevant to doing. Expectations rinsed away to expose the very center of me. Existing as a memory of many.

I am free.


Photo credit: lorettaflame from morguefile.com

Special Feature "The Dream is Dead"

It was the perfect drug for the times. Mesh traded for lace, traded for nylon stockings, and the best part?

Youth faded. It dulled and conformed, consist-icized to constricted positioning, arguments of logic and the final acceptance of belief, time, and all that consisted of pieces. Pieces of you; pieces of her. Places to please and treasure the time when her boot heels dusted that dance floor, black lace trailing a dream that never blossomed; only her tattoos were hidden after five years under corporate sleeves and that clove cigarette so mystified and died back when the smoking ban killed all forms of self-pacification.

It’s an arrow to the psyche, this welling of feelings and hurt residing from something that sliced through the ego twenty years ago. Zits traded for wrinkles, tongue ring traded for rings around the eyes, and a sigh into the bottom of the last glass of amber solidification.

Perfect drug equals that which made her believe the minivan far exceeded her LeBaron convertible; replaces her secret lover on the beaches of memory. Purple hair dye washed down the drain to maintain that concrete anonymity of Life as it Should Be.

                                                     

Piss in a barrel, stack cards on top and pick her future. Sensible heels or spiked demeanor. Bills aren’t paid with attitude, honey. Individuality is fucking overrated.

The dream is dead.

Photo credit: demondimum from morguefile.com