A Certain Ambiguity

I'm exhausted.
Met the Golden One today.
Months of silence that stubbornly seemed to stretch to infinity. The silence was finally breached.
"Within the next hundred steps that we walk together, you can ask me anything you want." he said.

Like the oracle at Delphi, he has never spoken clearly before. Merely indicated with a sign. Or perhaps it is just that I have never heard him clearly. But I cannot lose this opportunity, this window to the truth.

The cold greyness of the morning perfectly offsets the dissolution of my self. It perfectly offsets my rainbow coloured socks and muffler, which he comments upon, and it perfectly offsets the perfect green eyes that I can never look too long at for fear of bursting into tears.

As always, the romance just appears, without invitation. There are roses of every hue around us. It's the freaking University garden, I tell myself. It's probably the least romantic place on earth for trying so hard to cater to the hundred odd couples strewn across it's lawns in various poses of intimacy. but it isn't the flowers themselves, or the couples, or the dappled bleak sunlight that caresses his hair. It is that roses everywhere in the world remind me of those two roses in his balcony and the loving care with which he tends to them. It is that we are lovers, and friends, and family, and that no matter where we are a private universe of understanding envelops us.

I am simultaneously amazed and skeptical of the love that overwhelms me. I try to detach myself from us and see him as he must appear to a saner person. I cannot. I cannot fathom what it is like to not love every inch of that skin and every single thought in that head.

But at the end of the meeting, I am left with all that was ever my own, a certain ambiguity, the smell of roses and a song in my head.

Blutkitt

"Blood Cement"

Why are you looking away, baby? You know I'm talking to you...

Your self proclaimed saintliness is so pathetic it makes me ill.
If you really want to save the world, stop taking pictures of yourself while you "alleviate the suffering of the masses". Stop writing contrived poetry about the plight of the poor and how it makes your heart ache. They don't give a fuck if it gives you "sleepless nights". They don't need your sympathy, your artistic rendering of their wrinkled faces and tortured eyes or the venom you spew on the internet while sitting in your air conditioned room at the uncaring and self absorbed.
Get over your self man, there ain't no halo on that head of yours. If you were really so fucking happy "deep within", you wouldn't be so busy telling everyone else about it.

I'm not your mother,your shrink, or your lover. I'm not the virginal embodiment of your childhood love or the pin-up goddess of your feverish, blanketed fantasies. The thought of your touch leaves me cold. You may lie to yourself all you want, but your motives are transparent to everyone else. Scary thought, isn't it?


It wasn't love, baby. It's called masochism. An addiction to pain. Knowing you were never mine, knowing I'd never be yours. Yet thirsting, longing, almost - believing, self - deluding....



I've bled myself dry. There's nothing for you here anymore.

"My Heart is Broke and I Need Some Glue"

...but beer works just fine too.


Leave me out with the waste
This is not what I do
It's the wrong kind of place
To be thinking of you

A Closely Guarded Secret

...and just like that, with an electronic beep that I did not even hear, you were gone.

I wait till I am alone, before I turn to face the void.
It is an endless tunnel of pain. It threatens to swallow me whole.

I cannot describe it, except in negations and absence.
Perhaps that's what we always were.
A negation and an absence.

Always?

Always. Do you remember what always tasted like? Or did it always make you cringe like this? Did you feel the perfect symmetry of our bodies...or was that just me spinning yarns again?


The only way to make believe is to make yourself believe, and to make everyone join the circle of false beliefs. But sooner or later you don't want to play anymore and everyone around you is chanting the lies that you taught them, and sooner not later you lose the only anchor to sanity that you ever knew. (Or was that a lie too? I remember to forget. Without repression we are all doomed).

The things that are the hardest to let go of are the intangible ones.

I want to know if a part of you is dying with me.
While the dancing fairies with their glittering painted faces whisper sweet inanities into your perfect ear...

Do you hear me scream?