Stare That Into Another Hostility
The curves of her body take on a life of their own. One is the loneliest number that we have ever known. Oh, forgive me for the sins that I have participated in, today. Give me the strength to know the difference between yesterday and today. Any moment, we will be approaching torture. Sitting in the comfortable suburbs of Los Angeles, our fallen-from-grace hero swallows away another day, picking up where The Apocalyptic Hipster left off, the night before, hoping to hold the high that they had created in the small span of eight hours. We have got to figure out where the rest of the excuses fall off, and another lie takes the place of another day in the life of another day, after all the pieces stop falling from the sky. Welcome to the next chapter. It is called the rest of your life. Find the focus, make the point, and define the purpose to it all. We cannot afford to make fictions out of the reality train. Stop pretending, and make it real. Keep it real. You have to be a very good liar to make in the world, today, don’t let anyone deceive you. It is all about Death. Death of meaning, death of believing, death of the notion that there is anything left to make believe in.
Sitting at someone else’s machine, drinking their tequila, loving their muse, our hero has a moment to take out of the adventure, to try to remember what he was trying to say, before he was so rudely awakened, interrupted by the dreams, as they wander home, wet and filthy.
“It is not easy being me,” he says, throwing off his clothes for yet another fantasy, “and another thing!”
“Say you love me, and pretend that you mean it,” she says as she flinches for another blow to the head, the heart, just about anywhere where it hurts. “Make me hurt for feeling, make me pay for the pains that are eating away at me. Make me cry, I want to die all over again with you.”
He wiggles himself through realities like a surfer taking on the biggest set of waves, sunrise to noon. It is all about control. Who has it and who wants it. It is all about loving and dying. There are no two ways around loving and dying. You either are, or you are not. Simple as that. There is no gray area when it comes to pain and emotion. It is as clear as night and day. There is a tidal wave making room in his heart.
“We wish that we had been able to warn the rest of the world.”
“You look like the perfect candidate for the next victim falling into my life. Let’s say goodbye before you can make excuses as to why we never really met, in the first place.”
He is harmless and he could never hurt anyone.
“Honest. Yeah, whatever. I swear you came into my life to tell me that life is made up of nothing but compromise and attempted lies. Really, there is little point in trying to save me. I am all ready. Dead. I am expired beyond the life that you might have expected of me. Stick that in your pipe and smoke it. Make no amends with the gods that come to you in the form of dreams.”
“What do you mean by that?” she asks.
“Uh-huh,” he says, without a hint of hesitation.
Looking confused, she moves off into the afternoon, looking for her Romeo, some tomorrow named after her that she could call her own.
“You know that it is not easy being me. I don’t care how many disguises that you think that you can manifest with that smile, but it is not working with me. You better stop, or I am going to make you regret every word that you said to me.”
“Why don’t you just say what you really feel. What is on your mind? Tell me a story, and don’t make me cry, or I will make you pay so dearly that you will wish that you had never left the womb.”
“I had a wonderful afternoon, how about you?”
“When will we meet, again,” she asks, “and where is that devil that swore to be my savior?”
“There is not discourse in the middle of the abyss. You think whatever it is that gets you through the night. We wonder when you will stop making excuses for being who you are. We wonder when you will stop making stupid stumbling comments that are trying to find a comfortable place in the bushes to lose their cookies. Indecision will be the death wish of us all.”
The voice of reason speaks through the megaphone, directly into his ear. He cannot hear anything but the colors that are tattooing themselves onto the walls of his mind. He pokes at his eyes with a knitting needle, hoping to draw some blood or something worth saying, in the middle of the sacrilege, in the middle of somebody else’s day. He finally decides to decide upon someone else to decide upon his future. He takes his psychosis in hand and makes her bleed. In the darkness, without the help of the full moon howling bold and mean, the pirates were about to board the ship and, before sunrise, make more hostages than regrets. When there was a chance to look the other way, we chose to say goodbye to our naivete, and kiss her, instead. I have finally found the grave that I could have made into my home.
Give me nothing, so I do not have to forget how to drop it, lose it again in the battle, or give it away in an impassioned moment. The mountains are asleep with the please baby please make me cry another nightmare and name it after you. I am sick of waiting for that sick motherfucker to come around here trying to find somebody to fight. His mind is my mind. I can take him for granted. He is mine. Somewhere in the closet, there is always a door. Somewhere behind the face, there is usually a mask waiting to happen, picking the perfect Monet moment to pop out with a whole pile of consequences who have been stacking themselves up against the back door of his mind. Let me remind you that there will be no taking or possession of hostages. Give me a hammer, and I will make yesterday’s justifications out of them. I am tired of making excuses, unless they are witnessing the abuses, in the fall of mankind, these days of the desperation that we like to call our home.
Her chocolate-skinned nipples stood out on her shirt, making her scream in the middle of the pleas, begging me to come home with her, press my cock sinfully copulatingly playfully inside of her. There was nothing to say about the ethics of the moment. There was nothing that you could say that would make it better than a beggarwoman amongst thieves, making time against the rhythm that played along in her head, pounded away, while no one else could hear. There is no sorrow in the dreams and fantasies that make their home in the indifference to it all. We will not take prisoners, there will be no negotiations for the hostages. I will make you a promise, wrap it in a red bow, and fancy wrapping, and you will have to make the lies possible in the middle of tomorrow. I am not going to be accountable. I am not going to be around. Stare that into another hostility.
–Razee Ink 26 May, 2000
