write about [death]
because isikenai asked for it some weeks (months?) ago, here I have a bit of writing. Actually, I have a few bits of writing, some stuff truly from months and months ago...
also: Please pretty please send prompts my way? Please? Pretty pretty please? With a cherry on top?
The sun rising is a glorious thing. It rises slowly and all of a sudden, paradoxically. I always think, whenever I watch a sunrise, of the sheer glory embodied in those brilliant colours. At night, when you search for it, you can see the velvety blue tint to the sky and the hints of colour in each star. In the before-dawn twilight, it loses even that rich velvety colour and becomes a strange sort of flat grey; when dawn comes and breaks that flat plainness, bursting into radiance, of gold-yellow and gold-red and red-oranges and purples and colours humans cannot name, when dawn comes we can see the world.
It is the dusk’s twilight that truly means the world, though.
I always feel alone when I watch the sunset fade into dusk’s twilight. Usually I am alone. Tonight I made sure of it. I want my final moments to be peaceful. I want to die alone. I want to be alone.
And so, tonight, alone, I watch the sunset, and wait for twilight before night, and wait for darkness. The sun is failing now, dying just like me. It falls, and inflames the clouds, which burn gold as it sinks into the hills; it falls.
My breaths come faster-they’ve been growing less and less steady as my body fails. It’s been gradual, but it’s speeding up, like the sun’s course across the sky and the sun’s sudden death. Like my sudden death. It’s been coming a long time, like a day the length of years.
I watch the sun fall, like I am falling, and it is far more beautiful than I could ever wish to be. The clouds burn, like burnished shields and some shreds that point like spears; perhaps they are golden like fabric that kings could wear. And then they burn their far tips to embers as the sun itself smoulders in the West, and the edges of the clouds fade to purple, the same hue as the eastern horizon. And the purple grows darker, and the sky’s blue fades down to periwinkle and there is hardly a difference to be made between the purple clouds and the purple sky.
It fades to grey.
I feel the breaths choking in my chest.
It fades to night.
Aluminium
Strong but light
Not like iron
Not even stainless steel
Aluminium
The modern metal
Should we imagine
A world made
Of aluminium?
Or would that be fooling ourselves?
Cheating in chess and
Hoping the judge,
The computer
Won’t catch you
(You know it will.
It’s aluminium after all).
Nothing can be perfect
Or rather, There’s a perfect we
Can never recreate for ourselves
With ourselves
We aren’t aluminium.
She would’ve liked to have said that the first thing she noticed about him was his eyes-black as night and reflecting distant stars. That would’ve been much more poetic. It also would’ve been a flat out lie. The first thing she noticed about him was his ass. And how fine an ass it was. She blamed him, really, for walking that way or maybe choosing that noon to wear those particular faded jeans (he wasn’t the kind of guy who would get dressed before noon.)
And while it could be poetic to describe a smoldering look into each others eyes, or a strange lightning connection between them, that too would be a flat out lie. The way it really happened was oddly gradual. Because for some reason, he kept showing up, apparently randomly, just on the street, they’d walk by each other and her head would turn to follow him. Or rather, to follow his ass.
Those jeans… it was those jeans on that particular day that just made her… well, let’s lie a little bit this time and say those jeans were what finally made her talk, because, well, they made her feel an odd need to… talk.
And the conversation that followed-a quick exchange of words that actually lasted a couple hours-well, it was then that she noticed his lips. And yes, his lips were quite as fine as his ass. And his eyes.
And when they exchanged phone numbers, it was the beginning of… this. Not really a better word for it out there.
She has since come to appreciate quite a bit more than his ass. But that was the first thing she noticed. Not his eyes. His ass.
The ghosts hide in the clarity of the time behind them, the memories that everyone deigns to call worth it, or worthless. We have the power, they believe, to change.
We changed ourselves with these marks on our bodies, covering our arms, growing like plants rooted on our shoulders. We changed ourselves with the razors, the depilatories, then the injections to bare our heads to god. We decided what we would be, they believe, and then we made it come true.
The ghosts hide in the clear invisibility of the memories they decided to leave behind.
We decided what we would be, they say. We chose to grow these twining scars. We chose to leave behind the hair that once grew upon our now naked skulls.
The ghosts hide, then come out to haunt them. The memories return. The time he held his hand when they both got their first manacles buried in their wrists, to accompany the mimed wings upon their shoulders, the almost mathematically precise symbols on the muscles of their arms. The time he leaned forward so the falling hair wouldn’t fall into his eyes; and when he dripped the chemicals on his near bare scalp, to completely render he head clear; the time they both got the intravenous injection to keep their heads bare, as white scars, like the white scars they both bear where only one other will see. Then more came. The time before they met, when they were strangers, alike in so many, many ways; both victims, of others’ taunting derision and their own insistence on inferiority. The time one of them was helpless, vulnerable, laid bare by his own brother, and the time the other felt his lover leave. The desolation they both felt. The desperation. The empty, insistence voices they learned to believe.
“Say no more.” For it is unneeded and unwanted.
The ghosts hide from the smoothly said whisper, retreating into forsaken memories.
He kisses his lover’s hand.
He returns it.
Yeah, it hurts. I don’t know if she drifted, or you left, or if last night was knockdown, drag-out, no holds barred, screaming spitting slamming doors and leaving. And you keep wondering if it’s your fault, if what you did was the first straw on the bending swaying breaking bridge between the two of you. Is it your fault? It is, you think; I messed up, you think; I hurt her, you think. And maybe you think that you deserve to hurt, so you let her hurt you, bruise you and break your heart, break you. You help her, bending over to be kicked and beaten about.
And now, you’re lying here. In front of me. Asking. For help.
And y’know what?
You can’t do a goddamn thing about that bitch. She left you, and you left her, and it’s over. Yeah, it hurts. But it’s over.
And for now… please, just don’t hurt yourself more. Do you think you’re safe with yourself? I can’t tell. But I’m not gonna leave you alone.
(October 3, 2007)
Violent,
Vicious and Provocative
Calling forth
Cruelty and Callous not-caring
Attuned to demure zealots
To freezing warmth
‘It makes no sense,’ I cry
Ever the Reason between us
Ever the thought, and the cause
Violence is your voice
Cruelty your calling, it seems
Caring is mine
Illogic and reason
Or unreasonable.
Whichever you prefer…
also: Please pretty please send prompts my way? Please? Pretty pretty please? With a cherry on top?
The sun rising is a glorious thing. It rises slowly and all of a sudden, paradoxically. I always think, whenever I watch a sunrise, of the sheer glory embodied in those brilliant colours. At night, when you search for it, you can see the velvety blue tint to the sky and the hints of colour in each star. In the before-dawn twilight, it loses even that rich velvety colour and becomes a strange sort of flat grey; when dawn comes and breaks that flat plainness, bursting into radiance, of gold-yellow and gold-red and red-oranges and purples and colours humans cannot name, when dawn comes we can see the world.
It is the dusk’s twilight that truly means the world, though.
I always feel alone when I watch the sunset fade into dusk’s twilight. Usually I am alone. Tonight I made sure of it. I want my final moments to be peaceful. I want to die alone. I want to be alone.
And so, tonight, alone, I watch the sunset, and wait for twilight before night, and wait for darkness. The sun is failing now, dying just like me. It falls, and inflames the clouds, which burn gold as it sinks into the hills; it falls.
My breaths come faster-they’ve been growing less and less steady as my body fails. It’s been gradual, but it’s speeding up, like the sun’s course across the sky and the sun’s sudden death. Like my sudden death. It’s been coming a long time, like a day the length of years.
I watch the sun fall, like I am falling, and it is far more beautiful than I could ever wish to be. The clouds burn, like burnished shields and some shreds that point like spears; perhaps they are golden like fabric that kings could wear. And then they burn their far tips to embers as the sun itself smoulders in the West, and the edges of the clouds fade to purple, the same hue as the eastern horizon. And the purple grows darker, and the sky’s blue fades down to periwinkle and there is hardly a difference to be made between the purple clouds and the purple sky.
It fades to grey.
I feel the breaths choking in my chest.
It fades to night.
Aluminium
Strong but light
Not like iron
Not even stainless steel
Aluminium
The modern metal
Should we imagine
A world made
Of aluminium?
Or would that be fooling ourselves?
Cheating in chess and
Hoping the judge,
The computer
Won’t catch you
(You know it will.
It’s aluminium after all).
Nothing can be perfect
Or rather, There’s a perfect we
Can never recreate for ourselves
With ourselves
We aren’t aluminium.
She would’ve liked to have said that the first thing she noticed about him was his eyes-black as night and reflecting distant stars. That would’ve been much more poetic. It also would’ve been a flat out lie. The first thing she noticed about him was his ass. And how fine an ass it was. She blamed him, really, for walking that way or maybe choosing that noon to wear those particular faded jeans (he wasn’t the kind of guy who would get dressed before noon.)
And while it could be poetic to describe a smoldering look into each others eyes, or a strange lightning connection between them, that too would be a flat out lie. The way it really happened was oddly gradual. Because for some reason, he kept showing up, apparently randomly, just on the street, they’d walk by each other and her head would turn to follow him. Or rather, to follow his ass.
Those jeans… it was those jeans on that particular day that just made her… well, let’s lie a little bit this time and say those jeans were what finally made her talk, because, well, they made her feel an odd need to… talk.
And the conversation that followed-a quick exchange of words that actually lasted a couple hours-well, it was then that she noticed his lips. And yes, his lips were quite as fine as his ass. And his eyes.
And when they exchanged phone numbers, it was the beginning of… this. Not really a better word for it out there.
She has since come to appreciate quite a bit more than his ass. But that was the first thing she noticed. Not his eyes. His ass.
The ghosts hide in the clarity of the time behind them, the memories that everyone deigns to call worth it, or worthless. We have the power, they believe, to change.
We changed ourselves with these marks on our bodies, covering our arms, growing like plants rooted on our shoulders. We changed ourselves with the razors, the depilatories, then the injections to bare our heads to god. We decided what we would be, they believe, and then we made it come true.
The ghosts hide in the clear invisibility of the memories they decided to leave behind.
We decided what we would be, they say. We chose to grow these twining scars. We chose to leave behind the hair that once grew upon our now naked skulls.
The ghosts hide, then come out to haunt them. The memories return. The time he held his hand when they both got their first manacles buried in their wrists, to accompany the mimed wings upon their shoulders, the almost mathematically precise symbols on the muscles of their arms. The time he leaned forward so the falling hair wouldn’t fall into his eyes; and when he dripped the chemicals on his near bare scalp, to completely render he head clear; the time they both got the intravenous injection to keep their heads bare, as white scars, like the white scars they both bear where only one other will see. Then more came. The time before they met, when they were strangers, alike in so many, many ways; both victims, of others’ taunting derision and their own insistence on inferiority. The time one of them was helpless, vulnerable, laid bare by his own brother, and the time the other felt his lover leave. The desolation they both felt. The desperation. The empty, insistence voices they learned to believe.
“Say no more.” For it is unneeded and unwanted.
The ghosts hide from the smoothly said whisper, retreating into forsaken memories.
He kisses his lover’s hand.
He returns it.
Yeah, it hurts. I don’t know if she drifted, or you left, or if last night was knockdown, drag-out, no holds barred, screaming spitting slamming doors and leaving. And you keep wondering if it’s your fault, if what you did was the first straw on the bending swaying breaking bridge between the two of you. Is it your fault? It is, you think; I messed up, you think; I hurt her, you think. And maybe you think that you deserve to hurt, so you let her hurt you, bruise you and break your heart, break you. You help her, bending over to be kicked and beaten about.
And now, you’re lying here. In front of me. Asking. For help.
And y’know what?
You can’t do a goddamn thing about that bitch. She left you, and you left her, and it’s over. Yeah, it hurts. But it’s over.
And for now… please, just don’t hurt yourself more. Do you think you’re safe with yourself? I can’t tell. But I’m not gonna leave you alone.
(October 3, 2007)
Violent,
Vicious and Provocative
Calling forth
Cruelty and Callous not-caring
Attuned to demure zealots
To freezing warmth
‘It makes no sense,’ I cry
Ever the Reason between us
Ever the thought, and the cause
Violence is your voice
Cruelty your calling, it seems
Caring is mine
Illogic and reason
Or unreasonable.
Whichever you prefer…