Practice makes perfect, says a nun slapping knuckles with a ruler. Practice makes repetition says my father. Practice makes you stronger, maybe, but practice also breeds continuation and from there, we begin the slow degradation.
Words mince and muddle, drip down from open lips and pool in indiscernible little puddles. Rules eek like drool from slack drooping jaws, reeking of yesterday’s rotting lunch and a touch of tummy acid that, moments ago, came back up.
Pronouns add depth to a sentence. I’m sure.
But if you see through the film they’re painted on, you can discover so much more.
This rainbow paintbrush hasn’t been in my hand long, but I’ve painted all my own walls. Can I get started on your’s now? Will you let me rearrange and decorate? I’d love to dress you up and take you out.
A party. Downtown.
There’s going to be music, booze, and sexy noobs. But here’s the kicker — both male and female boobs. Half-naked. Genitals casually exposed.
Oh no, you’ve got this headache, aching in your head, eyeballs throbbing and temples tender to the touch. Well, sit back and play a video game and keep on drooling. It’s appealing, not appalling. I’m not angry. I’m just disillusioned with the magic of your spells and the drossy fraying drawstring of your fading smile.
Pick you up with tongs and tweezers from the ground just so I wouldn’t have to touch you.
C’mon now. Lock your knees if the muscles can’t take your weight. Lean against the wall with both your hands if you can’t stand. I’m not here to hold your see-through little hand.
I’m here to knock you down.
Teeter totter, up and down, back and forth like a little toddler. But your mentality’s no older. Got a god snacking on Chik’n snacks just hanging out up in your brain? Got a big beer bellied dad smoking some old pipe knocking around in your mental attic space? Does he have a white beard? Does he love Jesus? Are his eyes blue and is he gazing happily, drunk stinking skunk, like a frat-bro at you?
Oop. Did I offend you?
Cup my hands over my mouth and I’ll be quiet now.
Did I care?
This is the final step I take before the fire burns the door down. Backdraft blowing torches against my naked body, taking hair before it blisters skin. Burning skin before it gets deeper in. Muscle, sinew, blood aboil and I’ll be dead before the saviours ever come.
Crosses crossed like fingers over hearts. Pressed like relics to pouting lips. Someone wrapped in a headscarf outside breathing in the smoke. Screams waft like pollen on the wind.
Mercy, mercy, god have mercy — but no-one comes.
Church bells clang in electronic candor, and funeral engines roar as the motorcade rolls by. Lights blink red, red, red — stop this madness, stop the death. But, it’s only temporary as we slip, sleeping, by.
Maybe in another life, another time. Stop, get out, smell the wild mushrooms growing like white beards on dead alders. Brush fingers against tender flush-white skin. Dip a foot into a pond and hop, hop, scamper until you’re up the slope.
Is this what life used to feel like?
Well, well. Not tonight.