You are the eye of the storm and the sturm of the drang and you are dead. Deadeye Dick killed with a stick, a stick in the eye, eyeing half the world and the other half can go to hell.
You know it well. You knocked it out and blocked it out but still it rises, reprises, haunts and taunts and you crawl into the crawlspace, a crab from nebulae looking for the dead who died in bed except for Will who locked the door and died on the floor and your brother a pallbearer watching you as Ave Maria broke hearts and finally departs, the wind so still on a graveyard hill.
You saw the light and the light was black. You ran down the other side and ran out the back but the back was gone and you were back inside. The nightmare, a repeat performance, no curtain call, an audience of one, name of mudd, verbal assassin, do you like Jules Dassin?
All you do is watch movies. At least they motivate you to move from the bedroom to the livingdeadroom. How about Melina Mercouri, mercurial hot blooded sexy as hell but all was not well in the state of Greece, the junta, the punta gorda, the fat point and the fascist coup, Melina mercury rising too, a famous figurehead who fought the fascists and then the bastards were dead.
Well, that was something. You wake up and the day is slowly stopped, no traffic outside, no wind, no sun. There are no birds.
The loneliness wears you down. The death of conversation murders you in hot blood. Isolation makes you insane in the name of the lord and the sun and the unholy ghost.
No army of angels, no heavenly host, oblivion obliterates all. It obliterated your wife and all her thoughts and feelings and memories and it obliterated your Will and it obliterated your will. You became weak. You saw no one and talked to no one. Inside the vacuum you became a cleaner and rubbed yourself out, Eraserhead of Birkenhead, mind suicide, not of the body, the body still stands and sits and drinks and smokes and tokes, a token of your love in memory of the lifelove obliterated in oblivion where all the dead do not exist.
2 thoughts on “Looking for the dead”
good to know you’re still alive
Ah, Jenny. I still think of you.