Waste

If only the length of these sentences could take me away from the aspects of the modern world I loathe, away from the excessive maze and those parts of myself that need shedding. I could write it away, write off the day, pick apart the puzzle pieces of perception, reorganize, lights here and vampire costumes there. The clock keeps ticking and it too I could write away with a grimace of steal and a pen with blood for ink. I stare into a bulbous butt and with my pen pull down those panties and stick two fingers in just to watch her come. Go away responsibility, obligations! Free will’s a bitch boy. I’m in no mood for wasting my life at your command. Carpe diem? I kidnapped the day and held it hostage. Be damned with your modern inconveniences, pulpits and paperwork. I’ll thank you when you’re dead. ‘Cause the world isn’t strong enough to endure my passion; I get it royally when the Ram extinguishes the water, when the Arrow pierces the ocean, when the Lion drinks the river. I’m still running, not from fear but FUCK YOU. Weak wills and weaker joys– you wanna tell me about life? These dummy mannequin slaves to the tide. That’s carpe diem despite the world, rolling out reams when no one’s looking. Somewhere between here and the end of the page the day squirms away with a half bloody throat from where I held the blade and I find myself a prisoner if not a slave. It’s all material and there’s no helping it. The pins of routine puncture my heart for every X on the calendar until it’s captured low on the walls of this sterile institution. I could write my way out of locked doors if I could find and banish these demons, if I could climb to the top of the Universe to the foot of Saturn’s scythe, if man would stop knocking, if the Bull could keep braying, if the hooked stinger would stop stinging and turn its back on the seven cups. Can I write a fly-swatter to chase off this buzzing melancholy?