I am a vampire. I am ancient. I thirst. I hurt. No words today or perhaps ever. I seek inspiration. I need reason. I need a life-giving infusion, a spark, that deep inhalation of acrid white smoke filling my lungs and super-charging my brain. For I am hollow. Dry. Brittle. I am undead re-animated flesh.
Nine-inch spikes tear skin and sinewy tendon, bore through bone. Thoughts of salvation. Redemption. Regret. Damnation. And I turn to you and through clenched teeth with raspy breath ask you:
“ remember me when thou comest in thy kingdom.”
I think of her.
Images click through my mind in split-second succession: her eyes, her hair, her skin, her hate, her pain, her death. She is incorruptible. I see her swathed in white satin looking angelic a hundred years from now, a thousand years from now, entombed beneath glass. Breathless. Cold. Untouched by the hellish wrath of decomposition. A saint. Wearing red lipstick one might expect to find on the base of a penis. My sweet. O’ may I lay down with you and join you in your sweet sleep. My Ligeia. As suffering and time and worms march across our still eyelids. Statues locked in a stiff embrace never to be re-awakened for all eternity… or until Christmas… or whatever comes soonest.
Now.
Reeking of dried shit, piss and clammy sweat. The needle zeros in with deadly precision, like a gps guided missile, finding a spot along the vein void of gangrene or bloat or dried blood. The magic spot. The big G. A garish red “X” painted on in marker. The pirate booty. Buried therein a time capsule housing millions of cells housing millions of years of evolution and survival, marked by this one moment of de-evolution, of self-mutilation, of self-destruction. And the Darwin award goes to…
Yes, I confess… I lie. More to myself than to you, yet I lie nonetheless. For I have sinned. Again and again and again. I’m a liar and a cheat and a junkie.
“ And I’ll tell you things that you already know so you can say:
'I really identify with you, so much.'
And all the time that you’re needing me is just the time
That I’m bleeding you, don’t you get it yet?”
That’s why you hate me. That’s why they love me. They? I am the pied piper of Hamelin and we are legion. The disenchanted. The lost. The drunks. The fiends.
3 comments:
ligeia, the liar....finding stuff out which i don't know where you got it from actually educates me and is - a lot of fun.
.
i don't know really what to say. i maybe share a fascination and sympathy with the disenchanted. the lost. i am scared of the fiends. but in the same time i've always reached out. strange strange.
I've been here I think, although the details are hazy. This post reads like the insane, core-consciousness ramble of an alcoholic. I feel that anyway. I was a borderline-alchy for almost 2 years (only a alcoholic would use the term 'borderline'). I still find it hard to drink without getting drunk, so I tend not to drink very often.
Anyway, I digress - the tough, angered, piercing prose in this seems like the narrator is booze-fuelled to me.
What I'm saying is I like it as always.
BTW - begging is very embarrasing, but would love your thoughts on how my living and sying in Pete's serial ended.
fyi...
this is the fifth time i've read this...still can't comment, because my brain keeps trying to filter it.
just thought i'd let you know that i am shamelessly obsessed with this piece.
your friendly blog-stalker, G.
Post a Comment