An Open Letter
Every color bleeds into the oncoming day, with the vicious tempest of a freight train or an old cartoon character slipping off a cliff or a speedball driving through the vein.
Are we an empty madness personified? Or do we really see the beauty in all of this.
Ain’t no more miracles for sale.
We wake up – alone, or with someone else just as bored – and we light a cigarette, brew a pot of coffee; take a shower, take a drink, have another cigarette.
The hypothetical-she will get ready for work with a farewell kiss, while I sit in front of my typewriter glumly. Another drink.
The devil pays a visit. Always a proposal waiting in his welcome, like a teat for an infant.
Nothing changes. Just another small burial gift. A few coins jangling. A shave. A bespectacled fairytale aging.
The hypocrisy of time is that it constantly expands, while simultaneously making you feel smaller, weaker. It is a mote you’ve been exiled to, slowly going under the spurs of the river bed, disappearing into the nothing and the everything that makes up the universe.
This is the time when it takes genius, true genius, to eat the apple. Or to eat the cheese. Scramble the continuing construction. Destroy something. Make them build it again. But make them do it better this time.
Reclaim Hyperionides! Use your charm if you have to.
Watch out for the wanton wisdom of empty pockets, glance towards the movement of the sun instead. Fear invention. We’ve yet to comprehend the brutality within us, our own construct – yet we pretend as though we are entitled to discover the mysteries.
Remain under the world. Ask questions without expecting any answers.
Don’t rot the memory; it will decay on its own. I know, just as Mephi knows, what that steel halo is choking in my mind – but it’s fine as long as it’s bound; as long as it doesn’t have the freedom to roam around. As long as I can still see her in it, caged, I can use those melancholic, wistful hues so that my manifesto can write its own damn self. Self creation – it’s one of the founding paradigms of this dying country.
Like fucking in the comfort of your own home or your own destiny. Melpomene humidifying the air as the fluid of mercurial, immured amouracher or amoureux. Some well-read French girl in the gust of the starry celestial bliss, hanging lovely words on coat hangers along with her clothes.
Not the best one. Not an ancient hymn. Not a clever whim.
The certainty of finish is better, indeed, than reading Vergil.
I don’t mind the pain as long as I am certain of the finish. Time is only a restraint; there is always a key to unlock the shackles.
There will always be a cheap room for the execution.
There will always be a princess of the dust.
There will always be ugly men who strive for pretty words, teaching their souls that it’s the devil carrying them on his back because he has more time. As much time as a vacant car lot.
I know. And one day there will be no more choices to make.
Every color bleeds into the oncoming day, like the shards of the Muse’s hand-mirror reflecting the canvas of the world or like a blood orange peeling into wine or like the canto of pain, certainty and conclusion ghostwritten for a bard by stubborn drunkard.
This has been an open letter to the soft quietude of dissolution.
Let me be right in my search of ambrosia.
Let me remain young a little while longer.
Let it all come to some sort of meaning.