Haunted by the ghosts of things funny, things I did, things I can’t believe, things I can’t look back on yet. Can’t laugh or muster up a smile from the mire of the muck I’m feeling settled in. The rain keeps on coming despite the spring, to spite the wind, to rise up the shifting shit from the decaying cellars at my feet. Can’t sweep these back rooms for the broken brooms. Can’t clean the walls for these dirty hands. Can’t get through the storm for its howling scream. Can’t cut through the wires. Through the hatred and the ghosts of you. Can’t shake you.
Don’t want to. Rather hold the ghosts by their dark sides and claim love of you. Jokes and all. Laughing hard.
Oh stupidly, I miss the things I’ve years and years and years ago lost. Every silky curve of your body, every judging angle of you eyes, every brash touch and cool lick and flick of lies off your thick oiled tongue. Those compromises made me dumber and numb, and I think at the end of those long summers underneath the humid eastern sun, I was having too much fun and it was hard to get a grip on the reality I’d, we’d, they’d let slip.
Slip and fall and we skidded our knees on train tracks back from town centers and small winters and places where hands tried to grab at us. But we necked and laughed and made a rouse of love, if anything at all.
Drinking drinks by the guzzle, by the gallon, by the mouthful of alcohol to get our blood levels up. And, oh before I know it, I’m covered in my own blood.
Have a rag, a towel, some shirt you won’t miss that I can bleed myself out on? Will you be offended if I look. Look at me. Look blue-grey in the sockets of these sunken eyes. Press and prod and finger these soft spots for moments where the fluids push back or sink into creamy crevises inside me.
Down deep, at my core, I’m a river of remorse.
But who knows how far these morsels will go?
How far these compromised made-up memories will carry me?
Trod the path up a long hill, a long range, a long shot. Come with tents and sleeping bags and pillows stuffed with hulls and husks. And hulls or husks of ourselves. And shells from guns you fired off and shells from older forms you’ve already shed.
We’ll cover all the beaches and the shores with shrapnel and a long low whine like a whisper through the wind.
“Help me, help me, help me,” it’s funny to be calling now.
It’s raining. And I’m wet.
And you’re a water ghost, aren’t you now?
Oh, foolish attempts to escape the traps I’ve laid for myself.
And now, what did I think?
It’d be easy and we’d come out clean.
Like babies out of bossoms come without blood and guts, gore and gruesome wrinkled skin.
That’s the reality we’re living in…