no more poetry

circulatory subway map_image_531502111843035769745

hands on my weapon
dirty AWOL veterans
making deals with thieves

wait for violence
feel spontaneous
excitement
enjoy it
while it lasts.

when the knives flash
it becomes pointless.
dull.

go home, have fun
until someone gets hurt.
even better,
hurt harder.
we’re in a lull.

plan for action
fall asleep
in bliss or boredom
feel sorry
for nothing.

hard green eyes
fragile subway maps.
sunlit daydreams.
bound and beautiful.
tied to something, someone, somewhere.
it’s not enough to be alive.
i agree. so,

no more poetry
we’re cynical together
we shot up our dreams

dry tears and daydreams

eyedrops

castles in the sky
built on dry tears and daydreams
raindrops on the sand

lying in the sun
cold skin, bikinis, warm sea
clouds and our secrets

veins like brittle trees
make me dream of yesterdays
the sound of crickets

all night I tremble
reeds on ancient battlefields
Years pass like shadows

you miss the beauty
gaze at your own reflection
koi glide through water

lives I lost and found
always changing nothing yet
somehow still alive

I listen for you
to cup your voice in my hands
on dark starry nights

run away with me
promise I’ll never love you
double suicide

collapse into her
goodnight my sweet prince, she said
warm and safe again

Junk Romance #4: Nicole

“A mild degree of junk sickness always brought me the magic of childhood. ‘It never fails,’ I thought. ‘Just like a shot. I wonder if all junkies score for this wonderful stuff.’” 
-William S. Burroughs

True junk romance is to be totally alone, no matter whose eyes stare back at you with desire.

Relapse brings back the dreams. Withdrawal brings back the yearning. I can feel her calling, her shiver down my spine. We’re addicted to the withdrawal just as much as the high. The relapse makes the agony of her withdrawal worth every second.

In junk dreamtime, she teases me with visions of the ones I loved enough to pose a threat to her. I fell in love with her at first touch. She’s jealous because I fell in love with you at first sight.

I can see your brown eyes staring into mine in that fluorescent room with grey carpet and old computers humming to the drone of a lecture by a woman with an ironic obsession for Robert Carlyle. She can put me there with you right now, years ago, forever, some day soon. Beautiful with your short brown hair and olive skin, your elvish smile, your eyes never too coy to draw away from my gaze. Do you still exist? Will you ever? Junk makes time travelers of us all and gives us scattered dreams where we had lives as smooth as ravens’ claws.

I used to believe in love at first sight until I met her. She taunts me with your ghost and I’ve lost everything but your eyes. Dark eyes that stare into my empty soul. You’ll never exist again at seventeen, in this moment or in my collapsing future. And she’ll never let me go. I’ll only have your eyes watching me from the past, a cruel gift from her as she waits around the corner and in the dark alleys I’m drawn toward as I’m pulled away from you.

brown_eyes

Love, Death and Suicidal Blood Junkies: Only Lovers Left Alive

Jim Jarmusch’s Only Lovers Left Alive is a great drug film. Atmospheric, romantic,
doomed. Really, it’s the allegory of a tortured artist, but the drug metaphors are constant and in keeping with that theme. Imagine what being a vampire would really be like. Lonely and sad, you watch ordinary human beings (the zombies) destroy themselves and their world, making the same mistakes century after century. So you isolate yourself. only lovers left aliveThe world falls apart around you, while you sit like a junky Buddha, filled to the overflowing by thousands of years of knowledge, creativity, and dead heroes. Unlike real-life Zen philosopher Nan-in, Adam (Tom Hiddleston) can’t empty his cup. The misery spills everywhere. So he stays still, composing music he wants as few people to hear as possible but is compelled to record. He’s surrounded by the ephemera and detritus of a thousand past lives and his walls are covered in portraits of his dead heroes. He explains his artistic depression and isolation to his vampire wife, Eve (Tilda Swinton): “It’s the zombies I’m sick of. And the fear… of their own fucking imaginations.”

But scoring clean, pure blood in the 21st century doesn’t make for a fun life, either. You have to get the good stuff – medical grade type O negative, available only from crooked doctors. “Now they’ve succeeded in contaminating their own fucking blood. Nevermind the water.” Like junkies, they drift through the night, trying to score, passing the alley onlyloversleftalivebloodjunkyshadows of Tangier dealers who have nothing to offer them, and in the midnight midst of the empty ruins of post-apocalyptic Detroit. Travelling anywhere is a nightmare of organizational set-up to maintain blood supply and avoid the daylight. The blood drinking scenes are performed with junky ritual. The euphoria hits and their faces are shown in close-up, falling back into oblivion in that trademark shot that has come to represent the hit. And, of course, as with junkies, the zombies wouldn’t want them even if they knew they were there.

This is Jarmusch, so there’s no three act plot. But the film is so atmospheric, you can smell the guitars, antique electronics, the antique clothes. The soundtrack is fantastic. It will grow on you after you leave the theater. So will the film. I didn’t like it at first. The intellectual references are a bit forced. You have to settle into what the film is trying to do. I thought there might be something missing apart from plot, but the film grows on you after you feel it. Like heroin.

memoriam

Sunset Black and White by Cetrone

Their time pours like a waterfall, our time trickles toward the sunset. Our time drips in the dusk from the edge of the world into the dark abyss of the Pacific like summer raindrops on the petals of a corn rose. When the dawn comes, our time shivers across the west in the morning dew of a thousand green fields where a billion blades of grass tremble in the cold before the sun washes over them.

A junky’s time is tangled between past and future.

Yesterday we basked in the warm glow of the sun and the green shade of your garden. You squeezed my hand and you held your breath as you watched the hummingbirds flit from your daisies to my lilies, moving so fast their lives skipped frames. Tonight I went outside to face a cold, dark, starless sky. The garden walls are crumbling into the dead grass and there’s nothing left but a pile of dirt where your daisies bloomed. Tonight, I can’t find you. I don’t want to remember why. Every night, when I close my eyes to see yours, I won’t have to forget what I don’t know.

Let their time flow like a river. My time trickles toward the dawn.