6Sanuye9

Brown squares, green diamonds – red, yellow and blue – swim across my sheets. The walls are made of cottage cheese, and a drawing a little girl once made, while sharing sweet silence with a loved one, is plastered awkwardly against the uneven wall. A drawing from the past, when the days were longer and brighter and the nights not an escape, but a quiet, granted, part of the routine. "Well I guess that's what you get." Stop staring me down with your pulsing green light. Numbers, so neatly squared. Handcuffs, straightjackets, blades, chains – the long slur to my mortality. "Cocaine makes you grind your teeth all night." Ba

Doesn't it itch? The rope is not coarse, No. It is velvet 'round my neck. Why, I tied the knot myself; delicate, a noose of velvet; so soft, so comfortable; deadly. My hands are master craftsmen of this art. The art of suicide, but no bridges here my friend, no, no melodramatic displays, no. Just a velvet rope in a room no one will ever find. (if a tree falls in a forest, but no one is there to hear it, has it fallen?) Why? Because I'll never strive; because it's just too soft. And all the galaxies that glimmered in my eyes, swallowed by black holes – lost in a once upon a time. My hair, turned g

Your name is tarnished – hush… Dragged through mud and dung – hush… Were you at the wheel? Friend, were you the driver and the load? Were you the author of your fall, or the mere executioner and the head the tumbles from the blade? Eyes wide open, mouth agape. Let the axe drop. Let the wheels roll. Don't make a move, don't stop. Plunging through and through, with no one at the bottom – no one there for you. But hush. Hush, they say. Hush. Don't say a word. We'll remove the reins from your raw and yellow hands, through our own ignorance, our pride – nonsensical commands. The

One day… One day a soft breeze will blow through warm autumn manes, carrying the scent of an old dressing room, powder and sandalwood; and the unmistakable whiff of a dream – dimly lit rooms with leather chairs, velvet curtains and a green lamp in the corner – don't forget the barely breathing cigar on the mahogany desk;/ soft skin in a floral print dress lying in a golden meadow, delivered to the senses and the beauty of existence within the possibility of beauty;/ carved collarbones, that delicate landscape for the eager explorer's lips to cover in tender trails of fire;/ a black stage empty but for that glowi