I was lucid when I
first met the luxury of leisure, after it leapt languid onto my ligaments,
after it ground my bones into a worthless, workless weakening by want of
hardship. The silky soft caress of indulgence soon became a tailored-too-tight
suit of sin. The dim glow of ceaseless streetlamp stares tied a shadow to the
very soles of my soul and stalked my every sober step to and from the edge of
daydreams. This hungry phantom took shape from my darkest mornings and dueled
with empty eyes through the wicked mirror, and wore my idle idyll threadbare
thin. My phantom stared now with a wry smirk, tightening his serpent tie, as he
stood resplendent in my suit, an impeccable fit.
Truly though it is difficult to sustain such
a sincerely selfish tone whilst thought picks away without mercy at the mind in
a cycle of self critique, like vultures picking away at carrion carcass. The
cowardice carries on regardless though and the child called time hides in a
grandfather clock because its scared of being late. Is it that eternal cog in
the mortal machinery that wills us to … carry on? Are we so different from the
vultures swarming the deceased beast that they feast upon? The carrion? Are the
other cogs the pushers and we the puller? Or are we pulling our own leg in that
assumption? Who are we? Don’t I have enough confidence in my own ideas to speak
for myself without hiding behind the misery of the mystery of dual
responsibility? Am I any different from Jekyll and Hyde? Dorian and his
portrait? Are you? Are we? Satan was cast out of hell for refusing to accept
that he was created and born to god (the all powerful lower case messiah) and
that meant he was of dual morality, both good and bad in equal measure. It is
harder still to sustain such a sincerely faithful tone when trails of thought
are marked by crumbs of intellect, strewn across a fool’s paradise by handsome
and gruesome in their unfair fairytale. How bizarre. Still I will try to be
selfish in tone, sincerely I will.
Even a moonlit shadow needs his shimmering
trinket, a glimmer of hope to illuminate the ceaseless beat-less black of
nothing. My bespoke shadow found his in a girl, inevitably. Her speech was
intricate and precious, wisdom trimmed with silver. She was the brightest
companion on the darkest evening, save candlelight itself. Time is a harmer
though, and His corrupt company stained her and brought tears to the clouds,
weighing them down with a heavy grey coat. Droplets seeped through loosely
locked doors, and fed the stream of black thought she had believed dead by
drought, parched by gathered dust on tear-ducts.
Thorns tiptoed along her pricked ears
whispering imperfection along smooth islands of pooled skin. She was
dangerously delicate and sold her blame to influence. Just like a rusted
wedding ring their marriage left a hallmark, the coarsest conversation carved
into iceberg tooth, betraying the coyness of her smile and the uncouthness of
her dull iron talk. She was the last pretty tulip in a withered bouquet, unable
to look the sun in the eye. He took her to a crystal ballroom where they danced
in the shade of an honest lie as it bled like plastic pearls snaking the necks
of two pretty people.
Decadence
designed them a mansion that kissed like a prison, an ethereal residence
furnished with photographs of their mistakes. Still, it appeared pristine, and
the devil’s heartbeat was muffled beneath the floorboards. Desire, had defeated
them by dirtying the doorstep of their ivory tower.
No small surprise then that the door
walked out on them. Its decayed hinges stayed behind, so desperate to Finally!
Stare inside with curious champagne eyes that spied scarred windowpanes, boozed
up brutes holding shards of glass to cold coloured weeds sprouting petals.
Those poor penny-flowers were the unhappy bridesmaids of the tulip princess;
they were the first to expire, naturally, so that she could preserve her
allure. They were grown from seeds of wealth and woe and so had paid-for-purses
all full of green queens, but they simply couldn’t afford to be happy. Ah
wealth and woe, those fickle foes that sang heretic hymns and cried with smiles
of snow that the sun never knew. All this to mourn their children living
lonesome, orphaned by joy.
By now my gloom merchant is furious that
nearly the entirety of this narrative has been taken up by detailing his
disposable trinket, and the jail where he served his sentence with her shallow
shell in a tiny cell. He is pounding the floor with wispy fists but cannot put
words into a sentence, even in jail. It seems ridiculous that he should be so
self-absorbed I know, but even shadows have egos to feed. Fortunately he cannot
disrupt my description, as his voice box is made of fog, so his tantrums are
always silent.
They were held on reprimand by the trappings
of freedom. The directionless doom of waking up asleep had left a wanting in
her wandering and a longing in his life that was all encompassed in lacking a
compass.
Such is the disease that all of whom living
in a palace of thorn succumb to eventually. It seduces the gentle windows of
opportunity by gifting them with a view of their own, and then leaves them
cursed by withholding the voices that would word their opinions. The front door
comes back again and locks itself, loosely. He is aware now and gives the
hinges a sobering look, but they have closed their eyelids.
But his are wide
open as he saunters into the mirror-room, smudged smirk in tow. I stare across
at him as I clean my razor. He is perfectly clean-shaven, even after his
twilight reverie. Bastard. He unbuttons my suit slowly, satisfied and satiated.
He hands it through the mirror where an umpire with stained glass eyes
supervises this exchange. I check the pockets, because that fucker can’t half be
a scoundrel.
“Give me the benefit of the doubt,”
his cruel lips mouthed.
It fitted fine now this sinner’s suit, if a touch loose. I left him with
his serpent tie, (as every serpent needs its spine) and the doubt of any benefit,
and that was it.
