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Left.

She wrote: take me out tonight.

Left.

She said: fuck me tonight.

Left, right…

She wrote: you never write.

Left.

Scene (set the tone): sand-mist and tied-down tide mornings blood-splattered and spilt like me (or you) on a television nightmare; night-vision green with severed limbs and bombs, guns, tanks and 1942 all over again.

And then: voiceover narration (like your Hollywood-fucked movie about everything all pretty-slushed and fucked and catering to your every need like blowjobs on fuck-all missions nowhere).

But we’re talking about my scene.

My scene: my sand-tide dawn, my crime, my story.

Like this (that) happened to you (happened to me) like some object-dark writhe of agony-splashed humanity tight-gripped in tears and horror like Eastern front trenches lined with mud and flesh – something like a horror-dirt playground all mine-mimed in these (our) red-mist dreams of scope and shot like a 1914 Christmas all death-wrapped in children and angels like the memory of a father’s war.

Something like guns and god in a desert spelling an ending like a story never ever forever now then and over again and again like an empty notebook love-story about you (or me) like dust-parades marching for nothing now – marching for nothing forever.

Until our roofs cave in.

Until the lights go out.

Until these (our) screams drown out my tomorrow-thought thoughts like those forget-it lyric-poems place-fucked in zonal confrontation like my (your) preachers preachment preaching forgiveness like1969 deception and survival on a battle-front horror-parade like Christian Fascism or Islamic Fundamentalism all combat-wrapped in retail-priced pennies of limb and sorrow like my nightmare blood-red screams of slaughter; all those (my) feelings betraying the you in the me in the you.

In your head. We are crashing.

Something like reptilian paradises all casino-mired and spewing hate and love like the heralded hierarchical devastation of Amerika© dreams all trick-wrapped in wars clad in verbal discrepancies speak-lying about drugs and terror instead of chemically-fucked fat-food made from maternal breast-milk like translation is supposed to mean something, like condoned starvation principles (face-fucking us from afar) is supposed to mean something; like post-emotional television riots stealing our souls so silently, like a suck-fest parade marching itself dry on dirt-messed (point-black) mist-question disasters like our (very own) suicidal denial of carbon-monoxide infestations suffocating our packaged and protected mini-worlds of deceit (and slow death).

Picture me all sad and dying in your world; except sand instead of snow and red instead of white.

And so impure – like disease, like infection – our misery silently scurrying in quick-shuffled boot-steps across sand and tide like we’re meant to achieve something today – so we can fail (again) tomorrow; like flag and country or god and allegiance; like everything ends up being about slaves (bleeding blood with no hope or salvation) painting deserts red like the words of (our) fore-fathered wars (now) so unwarned.

Something like a slow-motion collage of wasted (and wasting) beer-binged memories (or nightmares) convincing me (and you) that artillery decapitation was a painting about guts and god and guns all wrapped up in governmental glory like all the simple things we forget – the simple things that keep us alive.

But maybe, we pray, the children are sleeping. And maybe, we pray, the children stay sleeping. Like anymore, our sadness everywhere.

Something dead and drying holed up in the darkened hell of this (our) own abysmal misfortune mirroring our souls like all those television tears we never dare cry – never dare feel.

But anymore, like always, it’s the chopped-out cut of a helicopter that silences a battle-dying army – stealing this the breath of my last breath. Like the time a dying army shivered off a battlefield to die at home; like retribution and forgiveness distorted in godly nightmares that were supposed to give us something – give us anything. Like this (our) shit-sad day of loss reminding us of these (our) sad-shit days withering away over and over again in loss after loss; like loss of soul; like loss of feeling; like this (our) emptiness reminding us of our emptiness then and our emptiness now, our dread now like our dread then, our cities dying at home like our cities dying away; something like crying and dying, like the dying now and the crying then, the crying now and the dying then, the tears now, the deaths then; the deaths then, the tears now – and what’s the difference; everything like no escape from this all-consuming, ravaging monotony strangling our vocabulary like fear-mongering Evangelical television priests selling our souls for pennies on Christmas like white lights on a red night all trap-wrapped in the dream of a red-mist point-blank shot erasing the graphic-silhouette outline of a child in the black-and-grey rain’s fall.

Like this (our) downfall.
Left.

She wrote: I’m fucking someone else.

Left.

She said: you should have taken me out.

Left, right…

She wrote: you never write.

Left.

Like storming beaches in the words of a father’s stained memory plaguing my living-room-trapped nightmares that echo his father’s cold-morning alcoholism, mirroring these (my) cold (so cold) shivered shouts.

Like pain is repeated history.

But war, for me, is (nothing) but horror transfixed in cyclically retributive boredom masquerading as restoratively scheduled masturbation; something fuck-marked in a locket of ‘hurt-and-love’ all wrapped up in the pain of a shivering, homeless, mass execution like a 1953 Amerikan© parade pack-fucking its way through these (our) Nazi ghettos like time-honored misdemeanors drowned in confetti shit-storms self-sucking themselves in the celebration of flag-waving (god-spewing) bullshit manifesting truth out of lies as our eyes stray stick-glued to mass-medium stupidity like plague and infection is a book about god, or belief, or whatever. But this was never about you or me or about how we feel.

This was never about god – or war.

Something like wet-sand backyard Barbie-doll graveyards haunt-fucking us like wish-empty dreams about pacifistic racism held at a belt’s length like a tortured sparrow; my metaphor for the memory of a memory of a memory like this storybook ending (now) ending with nothing but diseased malfunction like kids loaded on guns and drugs march-marching me down like i’m supposed to feel something (right about now) but the red-mist poof of a scope-shouted shot rings the end of my humanity like paranoia on a (night-dark) warm-winter morning shivered cold and ended bright-right in a rains fallen finish like a flood drowning a city like unheeded fore-fathered warnings unwarned – like kneeling in sand, choking past empty prayers through sand-spat words like mind-fucked sorrow-songs trapped in the chaos of dust-heaved blood-coughs.

Like a killer whale orca monster tracking me down on an oil shoreline.

Left.

She wrote: he fucks me harder.

Left.

She said: I hope you fucking die.

Left, right…

She wrote: you never write…

Left.

And so anger. And so confusion. And then cue my climax. Like we’re moving in. Like we’re in position. Like we engage.

Breathe in, breathe out, count one-two (break) three and fire. Hit. Hit. Shift. Relocate. Retarget. Hold. Breathe-breathe, count one-two and three hit. Hit. Bang-bang, breathe-breathe, kill-kill.

Red-mist ending after red-mist ending shaking over me like a tear breathing down my cheek – like a shiver silencing my (empty-sold soulless) spine.

Like you feel the lack of god. Like the shift of a shiver of a shrug. Bodies emptying, retreating; everything ended like the echo of a helicopter’s whisper.

Like that’s the end.

We’re out. Everyone’s dead. And then epilogue: the end of my life. And no one notices.

Like a kid pulling a trigger back. Kids killing kids, over and over again.

So Goodbye.

The forecast is gloom and doom and 1967. Or 91 flooding back into 89 or 83 or shifting back up to 93 or drowning in 01 and 03 and so forth and so forth.
And we pray – we pray so hard – that the children are sleeping.

Like no wonder my life just ended somewhere in between the chopped-out cut of a helicopters breath.

Like no wonder no one notices i’m not breathing.

Like anymore, no one cares.

And then end.

Left.

She wrote: I lied.

Left.

She wrote: I love you.

Left, right…

She said: I got your letters.

Left.

February 14, 2007 Blueprint Web Administrator No Comments