Seven Heavens

I

There is a fine line between here and there. A trick display of split expressions. Observation is only worth exploring if I don’t care what I find. Motivate seeds of desire to achieve the brief singularity of success. To achieve a numb glow, a moment of skin satisfaction. Endless ways to say anything to flag attention to that disorienting stench of preconceived intent / expectation. Mask presentation. There is no question on the fine side of the line. There are no answers on the dark side. There is no sitting on the fence. There is no fence to sit on. I am here or I am there. I am truth or I am a lie. The grey matter is only in my head.

II

I make no effort in my step toward you. I need not think of the proper face. I can see the line, naked like a lighthouse, a warning of boundary. The sweet draw of the other side, hungry stone waiting in place to shatter my unity into helpless infinity. Such effort we spend fooling ourselves. All for me / for you?

III

My violence will not give me the void that I seek, I know, in my desperate stretch to cover the line (for you). I fool only myself, but that’s enough. The hiding place for my fear. I walk the narrow balancing act with my eyes roaming, feet invisible on the line as they dance in the direction of blind faith. Nothing special – an open wound to crawl into. Ethereal sensation to mindlessly follow. I can dream along the way, think of you in a better place.

IV

It’s all fucking lies, anyway. Take a cool glance at the wall and tell yourself you mean no harm, your vision isn’t breaking through the film of your own private movie – your own personal. Tell yourself. Call yourself a liar.

V

Thank you, love.  Eat your own face so you can spit out that shameful spot, concealed fantasy, like the day mama said you were special. Compared to who – to what? You never could bring yourself to ask. You can be anything – create a character with charisma, rape me with that friendly smile; it won’t be long, now. I’m ready for your fake charm. I’ve been practising my eyes. Anything at all. You were always a pretty little whore.

VI

It’s a slippery moment, performance for you to love me, hopeful face on my head watching for the approval. Smother the line with the blood of lies, seduce to blindness with a sly grin and a disillusioning snuggle. Close the door; press your cheek close to mine. I’ll help you forget the truth. I’ll help you board the windows and seal out the light. Just hold my hand and never let go. Excommunicate the dry tears, the cold winds of change, the harshness of the other side. Bar the way. Pretend this moment of safety and comfort. It was never as dangerous as we wanted it to be, anyway.

VII

Who thought this beast was a hero.

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7 comments

  1. Hmm. It’s been a few years since I wrote this piece. I think I had just moved to a new city, was looking for work, and was likely frustrated by the endless superficial, insincere “social politeness” of strangers. My memory is a bit vague at this point, though. Strange as it may sound, I’m quite often “outside myself” when I write, with no idea what I’m about to create – other times it’s very methodical and deliberate.

    Great question.

    Like

    1. This reminds me of something that really stuck with me when reading The Teachings of Don Juan.

      He said that it is not enough to simply attain wisdom – you must fight to keep it, to hold onto it, every day, until you die.

      Like

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