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Ick R Us's blog: "Just South of Blue."

created on 06/24/2012  |  http://fubar.com/just-south-of-blue/b348855  |  6 followers

Low.
Barricaded.
Buried.

A place where nothing grows.
Nothing changes.
No magick metamorphose
No flickering ember of hope clasped desperately to a naive hero's chest.
Whispering "please" rather than "no".

No miracles.
No gods.
No more.

Dust dancing in the meek shafts of light.
A dry damp.
A linger of chores, and once beloved pet projects.

The crumbling walls.
The mildewy rafters.
The age.
The crumble.
The golden clarity of ignorance.

From which I could emerge
from the same old thresholds anew.
Unafraid.
Whole.




































I won't.

If I could write you a song about the green vales
dotted faintly with columbine and dandelion
with warm fingertips of sun brushing against the grass-

My soul would sing you an anthem
Chorus a hymn
March to a rally
Harmonize in rapture
Instead I belch a hollow dirge

Mourning the rags that wrap the cankers and bile
Clinging to the bones
grinding on bones.
With an unctuous rotten pump for a heart,
writhing only in defiance
hopelorne and full of a chill, bitter vitriol
beyond the grip of reason, power, and purpose.

I couldn't sleep but I had nothing else to do.

Well, that's a lie. I could read any of 9 books, or watch hundreds of hours of stolen footage up here, but it's just not in me right now.

I could be free clear, and done with a $10/hr full time job and a small loan.

House, land.

It doesn't escape me, but I've been stuck spinning my wheels since my brother came back for xmas.
Just haven't been able to get started.

Haven't felt a surge of confidence, or a particularly driving force.

Sure the threat of violence and crazy lingers from before.
It's ever present, and magnified when I'm alone.

I don't think I really left the day of the accident.
A part of me stopped there and stayed.
And nothing else feels real.

I'm horrified by those words, but there they are.

My brother says you can't live in the past.
Me.
Specifically.

He's been through -some- shit.

It was infuriating and brazen for him to say that to me.
Almost ignorant.
In a weirdly true way.

I have to move forward. I have to survive.
No one has made it clear to me why, but I've accepted that fact with a skeptical fanaticism.







The hope is I survive, and I get
away.

I'm safe, I'm private, and I'm away from the explosive rage of the strangers in my house, or the murmoring envy of unacquainted family.

Would a letter once a year suffice
of just the following words:
"I am well".

It'd be interesting to find out.

Descending a one-way street in the most bitter dark, and darkest cold.
Wondering if I'd rather go out on the hood of a drunk's car pretending to be Need For Faster, or 8 Furious; Electric Bugaloo.
Becoming increasingly confident that won't be a problem between the loss of feeling in my feet, and the encroaching plops, rustles, and stomps from the nearby night.

I'd be lying if I said this was all for you.
In the middle of an empty street at that.

One can only bear the casual bitchy glares
and all-too comfortable contempt
for so many days
without breaking one's nails off in the door frame,
or swallowing a small piece of tongue.

The cabin isn't too far off, no doubt overflowing with khaki wearing hipsters, and coats too thin,
and malted fruity drinks packaged with a lead balloon daydream
for hipsters trying to be ironic
or at least expressively sardonic
and wet, green kids with uncut drinking teeth.

Oh how I longed for a carnival of my own genre
a flicker-glimpse of a generation lost.
Perhaps a thinning scalp, and a hardened harumph.
I made due for briefly holding the narrow hips of diary-sworn crushes
a mere lifetime ago. Once confessed. And never returned.

Then came the noise.
Then the gratuitous sway and beat.
And a parting slap on the back after a blur of cigarette breaks and yeah-dudes.

I turned to leave the last one I knew.
Thinking sadly,
perhaps
never again.

Uphill, doubly chill, and mostly anonymous.



I never expected life to be so crystalline blue.
So distant, and pleading.
A delicate flicker against the dark infinite gale.







Enraged silence choked the spree of chaos in my mind
like the moments before being forcefully slid into the welcome depths of sleep
now oblivion.













I resigned to the cold.
It was too loud, too great
and everywhere,
and I was just the me.
In the one place.
The one  time.

Singing in a tube.
The smell of wet pavement and dirty water
strolled through my nose
and loitered in my lungs.
Power was still on.
Third and final notice.
The radio refused to yield.

Can't find my shoes.
Shirts are all matted with footprints
outlined in dog hair and dust.

I'd smoke outside if it was coming down just a little lighter.
Steps make a skidding of refuse and remnants.
There might've been a note in all that.
Only we never said goodbye.

Is it true that I have to?
What gets out when I do?
What remains?

An experience and softness for someone a little less withered.
A lot less hollow.
The kind of caricatures of happy people you see smiling
and haunting the places we think they should be.
A painted-on toothy grin and a glassy stare.
As loud as any whimper for help.

I was thinking about the blue ones.
They make me melt through the bottom of the bed
All the way down into the floorboards,
and sometimes into the magical land between.

Another year came and went
only this time it was two.

She looks just like her sister,
all string-beany and overjoyed at little stars in bass

I hope you'll be better than where you're from
and who you're supposed to be.

After new narratives to picture books
and unsolicited commentary to scooby doo
There's a bum ticker, and creeping self infliction.

Better to disappear slowly.
Quietly.

I was thinking about the blue ones.
They make me melt through the bottom of the bed
All the way down into the floorboards,
and sometimes into the magical land between.

Another year came and went
only this time it was two.

She looks just like her sister,
all string-beany and overjoyed at little stars in bass

I hope you'll be better than where you're from
and who you're supposed to be.

After new narratives to picture books
and unsolicited commentary to scooby doo
There's a bum ticker, and creeping self infliction.

Better to disappear slowly.
Quietly.

I was everything you wanted to be once.
An attentive father.
A sober partner.
A dainty hammer at the side of emergency glass.

Everything that was asked.
Even the ones I left blank.

Choking on imagined injust, and a menagerie of worry.
Climbing in dervishes of dust and neglect
building
towers
prisons.

Buried under catacombs and cruel
blank
oubliettes.
Neurotic accusations of smooth unfeeling walls
darkened by the festering nuanced hell of a promise unsung
a dream left drought.

The hard decisions.
A place I don't want to be.
Pulling help away.

BummedFrigidity, the vapors, fainting spells. Mass hysteria.
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