Posts Tagged ‘fiction’

I don’t want to feel the shame,
To feel the same,
Don’t want to be in pain,
Ashamed,
Inside myself,
Feeling rage,
Against the stage,
Trying to stop the wars,
Inside myself,
A memory,
Of whispers,
A sigh,
In that rain,
Against the broken showers,
In a tower,
A nightmare,
Of dancing metal frames.

I held your face,
In my hands,
A dream of breathing shallow,
It was my decision,
Oh how I kill myself for it,
To pull that plug,
My dear love,
To live with that decision,
I fell to pieces,
That unholy day.

Here in the tall willows, away from the eyes, the mockingbirds dare lie, they whisper in tunes, a hi, a hi.

Cindy laid in the tall grass, holding her doll, wishing it was real or this whole life was a dream.

Her brother had been killed in a war, Vietnam, her mother had cried there in the kitchen.

Cindy tried not to cry as she ran out of the kitchen, the tears were beginning to fly.

It wasn’t fair.

He was only 19.

He had told her he would come home alive.

He promised.

He lied.

There he laid, in that box, a shell, a corpse.

Cindy didn’t want to go to his funeral.

But she did.

Mother needed her support.

She had told Cindy that as Cindy sat in the back seat of the car, heading to the funeral home.

A flag covered the casket as it sat there, waiting to be lowered into the grave.

Mother never spoke of it again.

Cindy would hear her late at night, crying, for many years.

“I’ll be okay!” she told Cindy as she prepared to leave for her college.

Cindy got a call from her town’s sheriff, her mother decided to join Cindy’s brother by overdosing on sleeping pills and alcohol.

Another head stone to wait.

Cindy didn’t cry.

She shook friends’ hands at the wake.

“She was a good woman, she was strong…”

Cindy hated it, standing there, pretending her mother was strong.

Cindy was the last of the tribe, didn’t want to be, her father died before she was three.

She shut down, closed up, lied, said she was okay, Mother was with God and Cindy’s brother, but she wasn’t fine.

Mother lied.

Everyone dies.

She sat in the lonely quiet home, sitting on the floor, playing with that same doll, wishing she was real.

Was this life?

Just to lie, “I’m okay, don’t worry about me!”?

Cindy went to bed, to dream of a better time.

1684,
Number on the door,
Wine,
Drunk like water,
To drive that madness away,
Angry young men,
Waiting for the end,
A somber moment,
Oh drifting softly by,
To see,
That sea,
Oh hairy lies,
To feel alive,
In cosmic lights,
Drifting through angels,
Alive,
Oh beauty,
Oh father,
Oh mother,
Dying
On the vine,
A herald,
To hear,
A final sigh,
Angry young fucks,
Crying in the night,
Blasphemy,
In midnight hour,
To revel,
In made up words,
Of life,
Lies,
And simple things!

I laid there,
Melting there into the carpet,
A dream like trance,
A nightmare in fantasy land,
I felt the world spinning around me,
Chaos,
Madness,
Jesus was there,
Melting into Heaven’s gate with me,
We were souls,
Drifting through time and space.

The light began to fade,
I still thought I was a shrimp,
In a stormy sea,
Being eaten by Moby Dick,
Oh Henry,
My Henry,
Did you see the dying of the light?
Margie died,
Last night,
Cancer took her brain,
She was only 45.

I tried to stand,
But fell back to my knees,
Wasn’t a prayer I uttered from my dry lips,
Cursed be to any God,
As Jesus swore the same,
We’d never die again!

Somewhere outside of a bottle of a tequila, a monkey decided to grow wings and become a fairy of mass portions.

Little Rock was dying, Tulsa was next, America was a scene, somewhere outside reality, as I sat there, after taking a few edibles of various strength.

“Is this death?” Mary shouted from the top of the tower, leaning towards the right.

I shrugged as the world span out of control into the sun, seconds at a time.

It would seem the world would end in 30 billion years or a month, matters on how fast it could spin, fleeing, into that fiery ball of enraged senators.

Henry Parker, the man behind the illusion of reality, was sitting here too. His hands grasped the bottle of tequila like it was a religious experience.

“I saw Jesus back there!” Mary said as she settled back in the back seat of the car. She was high or so said her agent as he put her into the car.

Vegas, land of the unholy wild chief iguanas was boiling in its own skin.

“Beer!” Mary roared as she fled into the casino.

We never saw her again.

There in the darkness,
A light did try to slay,
The madness swirling around in their heads,
The world was still young in her eyes,
Fly the morning light,
To break that cursed pain,
To be seen,
To be heard,
To know the touch,
Of love,
Boiling deep inside,
There was no time,
Now that father is dead,
That scene,
Took his own life,
I found him there,
Hanging in the attic.

Prayers of Saints,
Do they even hear?
I pray,
I pray again,
Do they even care?

In a few years, I would be dead, a memory in some data bank, possibly even erased, to make room for those still alive.

The sky was gray; overcast, as I walked the two miles from my house to the beach, the wind hitting my face hard.

“Lyle?” a voice crept from my memories; July 12th, two years, maybe three years ago, I was seventeen, Aunt Tilda was dying; I couldn’t see her then, there at the hospital.

My mother was dying too, both of cancer. I tried to see them but I couldn’t, I was sick, the flu, I think, my father let me peek at them through the window of their rooms. Both laughed and waved.

I waved back.

When I die, I hope there is someone there to wave at me; a small glimmer of hope before the end.

I wrote a letter to mother; father gave it to her, please come home, I will make Chester pudding for you and father.

She never came home; died on the 20th of July.

Aunt Tilda on the 21st.

I sat there on the beach.

I did not think about death as the waves crashed to the shore.

I thought about life.

It was a good day.

Why do some loves fade away,
And others grow intense?
Why do some fools,
Who fall in love,
Fall from grace,
While others,
Love beyond the grave?

Somewhere in that book of love,
Please tell me why,
Oh dearly why,
These rules of love,
So I may feel that dear embrace!

INTRODUCTION:

The world did not see him as a human being; just a cog in a huge grinding wheel, nothing more, if he broke down, he’d be replaced, not even a mention on the grave stone.

I’m not an author, a writer, just some guy clacking at the keyboard, just some guy clacking at the keyboard trying to get the words out of my mind before they disappear like smoke on the wind.

CHAPTER ONE: TNT LOVE

Mr. John Patterson died as any man would die after having his love scorned by the woman he dreamed he’d spend his life with; he strapped sticks of dynamite to his chest and blew himself up a block from the brothel where his “True love” worked in.

Mary Soren, not her real name, heard and felt the explosion and thought the city of Butte, Montana was being attacked by the Germans.

She found out later, her suitor, who tried to persuade her to move back east with him, had blown himself up at her rejection.

She felt sad for a moment but continued “working” the night through.

I woke from a fright,
A dream I thought was just a dream,
Turned out reality, was not such right,
I tried not to cry,
But failed that night,
Sitting there, in a waiting room,
She decided to pass,
In the afternoon,
Jesus,
Oh God,
What did I do,
To deserve such a curse,
To be punished so bad?

I left my heart,
Buried in a tomb,
Couldn’t find the road back to the truth,
Merry life, swept by me,
Other went on,
And I fell by the wayside, to see,
A burning lie,
A morning in mourning,
A life moving forward,
But seemingly dreary.

To live to be old,
Is sometimes a treat,
And sometimes it’s not,
To see those who you love,
To be buried,
To rot.

Life goes on,
We try to move on,
But sometimes we find,
Ourselves in the muck,
We’re drowning, you see.

Good night,
Old lovers,
And friends,
Remember to tell your heart felt lovers,
Goodnight and love you,
Will see you tomorrow,
For that tomorrow might not bring!