Published Book or Work by:
Motion Picture Soundtrack,Score of my life
folded hands with cracked fingernails from bitten nervous winters, covered gently by the glow of floodlights as he is driving, speeding at an early hour in the morning with nothing at his side except an empty bottle of neon. that entire selfish bottle of it he had downed tonight, thinking maybe it wouldn't affect him, as if he was the king of the masochists or the numb, but it's glitter filtered inside him, sat inside his stomach and talked to his leftovers in a shy whisper as the world hummed quietly in chaotic uproar. this isn't music! this is noise! traffic and city lights and the replay in his mind of you, as you told him things that made him change and transform, things that made him remold and revolt, things that made him satisfy your every need, but he was still afraid of what you'd say because you had become his complete reason for life and solitude.
"so i guess this means we're in love now."
"stop giving it a name."
four letters can ruin anything. and they will, he thought.
a tune flickered inside him, coiled and worn like the end of a cigarette, yet it was peaceful and instant, and everything he needed. "this isn't the movies," was what you had once said, misplacing him in that moment forever. his heart was now just carry-on, as his baggage was misplaced in terminal 4. on the drive from the airport he stopped quickly to buy batteries for his discman, from a young man wearing a deep green vest, who hours later was robbed and kidnapped and murdered on the side of the highway.
his hair was like butterflies. "no you are," she uttered softly. he explained, in brief detail, that he never finished the book he was reading, for he dreamt his house burnt down and he lost his page, and realized that he couldn't read the stop sign only because he was trying to look at it from too many awkward angles. oil paintings of daffodil remains that filtered themselves within the sky hung skeptically on his bedroom walls. "you make me feel like an insomniac in the arms of sleep. i wish i could fall over the desperation."
muttered, half-bitter, numb limping speech, withering from his cracking lips, asking, "do you ever miss me? i'm asking you in all honesty, because i am thinking about you, and hoping i will see you soon. will i? you know, because i still miss you. i hear you fucked him behind my back and i still miss you."
"you're a letter without a return address that never makes it, and to be truthful to you, i do miss you."
"you're awake." no, but i could be.
a very sad book, the kind of sad that permeates you, the kind of sad that makes everything seem to be tinted in blue light. but he never finished it, remember, even though he liked the books that he did finish. feeling disjointed, with a craving for living an addiction of live recordings. "the static ruins it." but that's just the juice of it! the fucking core. months went by, and eventually he only wasted his time with bottles of neon, and didn't listen to his discman anymore. the batteries had been dead for months and so had he. "the whole idea came from a song." don't all the ideas come from song these days? whatever happened to acoustic guitars around a campfire? whatever happened to simple songs that meant so much?
when he closed his eyes he was overtaken by white lights, so bright that they actually made him feel like as light as feathers, which didn't make sense and left him feeling dizzy, waking up in an outrage, searching frantically for his book which was now displaced somewhere in his apartment. he found it the next day but he didn't finish it, remember. night re-arranged, and created dreams of that boy, which fucked him up for days because he knew he couldn't have anything with him. the sensation of skin against pale thought consummated his entire body, his entire being, his entire light-weight sense.
he kept trying to tell himself to alleviate this feeling, but it just doesn't work that way. his need for warmth and participation eventually destroyed him, leaving him as an unfinished house out far from the city, a naked retching skeleton of wood, without a roof and letting all of the rain in to drench and rot the frame. then feeling somnolent, and everything gets quiet: so quiet that he begins to hear rain even when it isn't raining, and he thought nothing of it, except to scream 'i understand', 'i love' and 'i hate' are misused these days."
rewind. you missed something.
ctrl alt delete.
hum. whir. wires alive choking us.
"she thinks it's funny when i get mad in notes and go (scribble scribble)."
you get it right?
please believe me.
i'm just trying to figure it out.
"this isn't a fucking movie."
stop. rewind. stop. eject.
the late fee is $1.56.
your skeptical sandalwood candle scented-filled rooms fill my buttered eyes with soggy overdrawn mellow amnesia, leaving carved holy writings across my peeling pensive wheels, leading me into your kitchen, with burnt toast and closed doors.
i was told i had a compulsive attitude towards raspberry chocolate, milkshakes and leftover half-eaten sandwiches, to which i replied, "i am not the marching band's leader."
across the park, over tire swings that ache with the remains of laughter from children playing when the paint was still new, when the chains were not rusted, when the parents were still happy, when twenty-five cents was expensive, when flying a kite and swinging on swings was enough. boxes filled with yellow sweaters haunt the attic with compiling yawns as the darkness becomes elusive and the strings of the marionettes hanging from the ceiling are weak and listening to the shouting through the floorboards and the crying from the television static below.
soft, sweet, and repetitive chuckling from the houses in small towns bleeding from unhappiness and centering themselves behind mass production, simplistic family photos, and open doors. no talk of broken cable wires, deaths in quiet hospitals, heroin addicts and prostitutes and dead poets, radio stations from farther away, broken city lights, or hunger in third word countries. eyelids without images of death when closed are usually healthy eyes, wrapped in sleep and the smell of dinner being prepared for the sedatives they rely on to get there.
within moments there is a transition from warm to cold, and frost is forming on windows. empty mugs in bars cannot be sensible in a world without hand written letters. polaroids are only for those who are impatient, like a child laughing and a record player skipping. you're running down the aisles of the supermarket downtown, without thinking about the worn out artists in junkie cafés, and pleading with narrow fingers, but everything was out of place until october left orange streamers along the streets.
seduced green film overtures recorded with drunken and lovesick violin in a studio, east new york city, behind the glass of the stained churches that cover and darken the conceited thoughts of the father, feeding off the praise of out of tune christmas carols sung on the street corner in blasphemy, sneezing and coughing and shaking and screaming, and fixing his hair constantly with ink spilled fingers.
doctor, i am sick with stomach cancer from living underneath the drainpipes of a disgusting society, from the wine that i have consumed too much of, from the unproductive injustice of my life, from the hypocrisy that others, and myself, are creating. heal me! cure me! write me a prescription for regulated thought!
i tried to cry in rejoiced, messy, drum-solo speech, while paraphrasing my thoughts into senseless prose, but soon after i realize i have created misinterpreted thoughts, i have created a false escape route with a dead end, i have created nothing but words across pages and pages that only i, myself, can understand, i have permanently damaged my name, i have killed myself with an injection of words, not heroin, and that i have left nothing for the world to recognize me by, but unconscious rambling from sleepless nights past five am in the streets of cities i have never visited.
broken clocks, all in chime shouting in tasteless voices, that is it now 5:14. tick talk tick talk. ashtray thoughts and rings of paint stretched across extensive yellow rectangle cut-outs against a wall of wax. therefore, do not light matches near it, for it will melt. (flick)
look what you have done! now you've melted it down, and the towers are collapsing in, the water is flooding the city, the ghosts are shrieking in rhythmic undertones.
their lies were self-proclaimed, and taking shaping. in fowl swamps, and in cramped hotels, you'd still like to sleep with your whole body, as if it feels any better that way. it is then that you could pick memories like lint from the clouds, only because they would never form easily from your lips and i wanted to hear them more than anything. they were screaming, somewhat intolerably without much of a reason, as they invested within unturned and sadistic thoughts, decaying in clumsy fashion, unbuttoned from top to bottom.
somewhere, someone is taking the sky and placing it into a jar. a valentines gift, you see. together this person and the receiver of this gift are fumbling into a taxi cab, saying, "take me to the stars and back." they are unafraid of the road ahead. if angled correctly, you would see the determination on their faces behind their blue eye shadow.
not to be mocked, but it seems as though hours have passed. it is now only 5:43 and the phone calls are pouring in, to an unslept mother, busy humming to her wakened baby in his pastel blue coloured room.
oh weep of unwrapped faults, and rid my mind of distant calls from the book on my shelf, as i still have not slept. i still have not slept and there are bells ringing downtown in the square as the markets are opening in the nostalgic mind of an old man, who once dreamt of a life with meaning, but lost clutch to that dream when his hands became nimble and afraid of human compassion.
and then, brothers, a day of hair-pulling and nail-biting ends, and night cascades as the street lights take over the sun's position, and in enters the overture. yes, the overture, like shadows expressively creating the music as they find their way across the photo slides in dark rooms, through half-smiling rotted teeth and uneven checkered plates in the background, nothing noticeable at all except to those who've not got their glasses on as they are livened by shouting noises outside their bedroom, their sheets a mess of memories and ex-lovers, stumbling for a light, their fingers aimlessly caressing their way across the night-table to find sight, when indeed the violin enters, molding into the used repercussion acoustics of the empty stage hall used for late friday night rehearsals when dinner has not been eaten and fingers are tired but working overtime.
the string section is awake! the string section is masterfully creating woven silhouettes of sorrow, and of the joy to come afterward, of the horrible break-ups that newspapers generally ignore and the wicked crash of the ocean against june's feet late at night when the beaches are empty and lonely. but, somewhere beyond this, the oboe player is feeling uneasy and remembering the night before when he was sinisterly raped, beaten, robbed; his innocence now a mockery to mankind, as he is now like an animal left in the cold, eyes taped open to watch the horrors of clashing opinions in society, all of which is bleeding its way out of his oboe, all of his awful thought, all of his unwanted feelings are being pushed out into the overture and up into the ceiling and back down again.
ha ha and ha, is the shrill laughter outside the rehearsal, of a woman wearing fur and fake diamonds, as she ruffles her hair back and lets it feel like wheat fields of gold, and just as coarse and rough too as it is clogged with hair spray and cosmetics, as is her face, which is of a different complexion than it was the day before. her eyes look worn and she feels old but won't admit to it. ha ha and ha, she cackles, yes much like a witch from the stories the oboe player was not read as a young boy because his father was always out drinking and his mother had committed suicide not long after his birth. yes, ha ha and ha, a grand laugh she had in between struggles with her cigarette, which stained her hands with a smell that made those who kissed her hand feel uneasy and spoiled, but they paid her for the night anyway.
clarinet finds it way inside the piece, much like syrup gently and slowly spreads across pancakes at breakfast if the right amount is applied, which, let me tell you: it was. the instruments and their players are like catalysts of life, as the conductor's arms are heavy but he is used to doing his job, and the music fills his body with a sense of enlightenment that lets him continue his pace. the music is melting into the ceiling, melting into the floor and the walls, melting into the city and all of the people in it. it is clear, crisp; relentlessly organized into prose without words and not needing them to explain anything. "the music was not an afterthought."
webbed neatly together, stitched and unhinged, loose and free but careful and planned, the overture is almost complete. percussion hits, its gastric ultra-violet resplendent fire builds into the cabinets of every player's minds, and they are all getting very fatigued now, but still their fingers are working harder than ever, their mouths blasting with sonic love, as if a celebration is happening between reeds and lips, where they are reconciled and pronounced. as it comes to a sublime finish, a silence fills the room and all of the players look at one another, as within the last few moments they have released all of their secrets to one another without feeling judged at all. a smile passes across all of their faces and snow begins to descend like a ghost from the sky as they pack up their instruments and drift into the night in search of sleep and comfort. they are trying to forget who they are until tomorrow night's performance. they are trying to be shadows across walls in long corridors of empty hotels in november. the oboe player gently shuts his car door, knocking his empty bottles of neon aside.
thus, they are static, thus they are noise spilling out from burnt out speakers, leaking like restless fuel from old car engines in locked garages somewhere in denver, the keys long misplaced and unused in the dirt of the sides of the roads that make their way into california, as the oboe player tosses one of the empty bottles out of the window and speeds into sleepless untouched midnight. his hands are trembling as though they are new born, when in fact they are old and overused; his eyes are sadistic and external, he is against himself, he is awake, he is on a highway leading into everlasting nothingness.
the tips of his fingers are much like unkempt grapes, against the wheel of human history. he is screaming and vacant in a horror of the blues without echoing, mournful harmonica. worries of a hidden past are much like the trapping of sound within the soil, erupting through the average city streets and into the sky, late at night when car crashes are irrelevant and purposely blamed on drinking, when the drunks become the poets of the underground, creeping slowly but always around to arise memories that will never been forgotten like photos in boxes left taped up beside dumpsters on raining friday nights like these. hey it's not the end of the world, he thinks.
to explain, briefly, the events of the past few days, would be only to protect you from what is and will happen. behind the screaming in half-empty basements of the inner-city, those dreams he'd been having, they are getting worse now, clearer and more vivid. now in the dreams, they are sadly holding hands. november is eating him alive. his drinking problem has increased. his oboe is overused. the practices are occurring more often now, as opening night is turning up quickly. his car is running out of gas. he is slowly disintegrating; ruining himself. if he were a record of spoken word, his name would simply be self-titled, and every track would be the title track. the liner notes would simply suggest that it was recorded somewhere that is no longer around, as it was most likely destroyed. where would the sounds go, he questioned. he got horrible reviews, but what do critics know, he thought. these thoughts were the only way he knew of to get through the day, although he was still left nervous and uneasy.
when his closet is opened, skeletons are found, plenty of them all unorganized. he wonders, where to recycle them? he writes dreadfully in cluttered handwriting on a worn notepad, which he keeps within his pocket, to buy some paint to cover the disassociation writing on the walls of his apartment near the church on the corner where refuge is refused, the priest not seeing the light of day and snowing dismay of sad barren thought that cover the streets. on a table by the side of the room sits a typewriter, nearly out of ink and with a few broken keys. there are few lights in his apartment. it is just like any other, he told himself.
closing the door to his apartment building, he is off into the streets, click click click of tourist cameras capturing the towering dismay of a shadowed city in the mind of thoughtless dreamers and blue prints messied up by sticky fingers. dim lights in the streets on cold afternoons that have a tendency to off on off on and create a stage show for the hungry exhausted polluted air and detached frame of the sidewalks. the temperatures dropping to the violinist's fingers cracked and worn on the corner without any money begging, begging for someone to listen to him play his piece as the traffic overrides his fumbling beautiful string array of loneliness. the shouting of the subways beneath the ground is like worms pedaling their way into the core of the earth to play monopoly over the government and create war; hunger; sadness and pain; misery and mistrust; all betraying each other and cheating on their loved ones and crying in hotel bathrooms with one last unheard gunshot to their heads.
his shoes are ripped, but not prying themselves from his feet just yet. the knots in the laces could easily represent the way he is currently thinking: which is tangled, and not at all structured or prepared. streets of gray those shoes walked with, all the way into town, with a last thirteen dollars of the week spent simply on paint.
angst is streaming through his blood like diet cocaine flavoured soda, eating his stomach, his eyes; his angst is catatonically clambering, growing; a neurotic shaking fumbling disorder, not comprehending any of his needs, wants, fears, desires; he is the poster child for divisions of young adults that are still far too youthful, but tired of gluttonous anorexic smiles spreading across the faces that peer into their filthy eyes; his mispronunciations are his raging flesh, his sweat and blood and fucking cowardly insides all condescending into one ungenerously reciprocated offering.
as he turns out of the store, he gives a forgiving heartbroken smile, and turns into the cold streets. this time he hears nothing but music playing in his head. he is overpowering the chanting please-don't-push of the passerby's attempted slow-step-slow-step i-can't-take-this-anymore dance, uncoordinated, he thought.
when he arrives home there are no letters, no phone calls, no at-arms'-length knocks at the door with no responses. he starts to paint over his walls but starts to realize what he has written. blusteringly, he starts going into hysterical fits, his eyes and face drenched and stained now, and trashes his apartment, kicks his disassociated novel aside, pops pills at a higher dose than the day before, finishes off another couple of bottles of that god awful neon, passes out on the couch, hits repeat and disappears into the day. there will be no rehearsal tonight. there will only be him, his nightmares, and thousands of pages scattered across his floors that he doesn't remember writing.
"hey i'm trembling, hey i don't got no fucking scene. you are demeaning to yourself and in ownership of the blur outside the windows of buses in pictures that are taken on field trips to the moon. you are shadows across the faces created by people's hands, protecting their supposed hideousness from the capturing of film. yeah, you're all out on crooked smiles and i'm here fucking trembling. and still you wonder what it's like to be three in the morning."
no more guitar solos, i'm all out of ideas. so, he says, "i'm just fine, thanks." his catastrophic dreamland is alive and earsplitting in his mentality now, and he is on his knees in the downpour (in the mud) sheltered by arms around his body keeping him conceptually warm. it was just a thought. and soon, he snapped out of it, for now. he would wake up. one day he was certain he would wake up for good. that day was not today. "show me your face."
the sunlight briefly escapes through the curtains, tossing shadows across the room, unfolding the wicked trades of tomorrow's unkept promises, and the only warm thought in my body is that which is of you
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