I want to write a love song

Why would a nice guy like you want to kill a genius? Why? Because they told you he was crazy? The Colonel is not crazy. The man is clear in his mind, but his soul is mad.

– Apocalypse Now


I want to write. Write until my fingers bleed. Bleed until my blood encircles the earth and fertilizes it’s soil. I want to pump out the only stuff of any import. I want to write the words.

I fight to maintain the first person. To stop the mind slipping away into the comfort of the third. To avoid the relapse into the trite contortions of ephemera.

The pain and anguish.

This is the stuff of my life. That much is left undone. That so many pages are left unwritten. That the darkness stalks me. That the embrace of lovers and friends is so often averted. That I have avoided complication. That there is not time for the thousand visions and re-visions. That my monster is not pain or principle but simply the mundane.

Death, where is you sting?

“It is in footsteps you hear behind you. It is in the fear of the average. It is in the money you do not have and in the places you will not see. It is in Bali and Borneo. It is in the eyes of the stranger you did not meet. It is in the bills unpaid and the promises broken. It is in the ever present pain in your left arm. It is in the mark of your beast.”

Second person. Again I escape the inevitable hell. Again I do not dare approach with direct eyes the moment.

Our angels. Our saints. Those gracious souls who have tended our wounded selves. What have they given us that will not be extinguished at the moment of our dying? Why have we given them the right to bind us up in chains? They have shackled us to the alter of ideal. They have killed our souls to save our rotting corpses. We have offered to them our fear and they have consumed us. They have no right but that which we conferred. We have signed away ourselves. We have committed the unpardonable sin of love everlasting.

These things cannot be said by me, even in this passive voice.

Our demons. How we love and hold them to us. The hounds that tear us, the beasts that ravish us. The famished animus lurking in the corner of the cave, awaiting our estrangement. Constant companions, they will someday be our canine companions. They know us and we know them for what they are, if only we would acknowledge them. The hound of hell a lapdog, awaiting a scratch between the ears. The beast of our burdens a pliant ass, ready to carry the weight of unrequited yearning.

“Cry ‘Havoc!’, and let slip the dogs…” of yore.

Who do we pray to? We who have no gods? Where do we go who have no souls? In the quiet of this darkness, where do we turn for our salvation?

I have been provoked to words. 1:13am intones the time. I am entangled in an ordinary life that requires attention later this morning.

Let these words stand as written. Let me no nearer.


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