52 blue

me when i'm a fucking psycho and i go crazy when i'm just trying 2 enjoy a nice car ride with a friend. why do i do this 2 myself? who knows! anyways heres more bullshit

52 Blue

An unfortunate lapse of consciousness

Subjugated by the hush of colour on the windshield.

You’re driving too fast

And the winter treeline is melting,

All the rouge of the dying daylight

Gathering in single-file across your cheeks

As you try to prove that you can beat the sunset.

Tonight, we are the roadside wildflowers

And maybe I could even know you, or rather,

Have you know me-

Beyond the digging and undigging of my lungs into my chest,

Beyond the flutter of hesitation when the door finally closes,

Beyond the archery of my disaster as it unremittingly finds its mark.

You’re etching the conversation:

One of your hens has been pecking her eggs,

I imagine the ooze of my brain

(The engine that can only overheat)

As the satisfying click of my skull shows its cracks,

Sweet rivulets of memory turning blank as eggshell,

The colour my mother painted my entire childhood home

But then I think I wouldn’t remember that

And return to the carnage and bloody blur.

The wheels are groaning on the pavement

As you manipulate the puppet-string wheel.

I wonder if you feel the strain, if you feel mountainous,

Like the lion, brazen, atop the pride

Too hip to lick his tricking wounds.

I almost ask if you need to,

Have the blood, I mean.

That the kings and queens of the voyaging ages 

Built their throne of bones and broken promises

Back when there were still voyages to be had

And I was still a star out searching:

Too bright to handle my own creation myth

Blazing glory through a cosmos that, I’m sure, was

Not as frigid and lonely as this one.

I wonder if the blood I’ve shed

Entitles me to a piece of the velocity.

Would they accept me as Valhalla’s gates,

20-Gauge in hand, head pouring out like a shattered window

Forcing the shards of glass into the bedroom from the wind,

The invisible hand of my enemy still stained to my throat:

The final kiss of an intruder ready to wreak havoc on the home.

But the Sun has settled, comfortably tucked into the horizon, now.

And you do not know about the scars I have weathered.

The radio pumps my heartbeat out into the stale air

And we sing like someone was waiting for us to.

The white line at my heels blur like a snow leopard,

Catching up to us, I can see the shine of its teeth.

“Must it know violence before it knows itself?”

I shout over the crashing bass

But, as if my cry were the harmony,

Carrying us back to the orbiting chorus,

Around and around, beating and beating and bleeding,

You don’t hear me.

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