Date: 2008-03-03 00:45 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public

Of Human Woe

I. A Decision
He had to tell her.
This was the last moment—he felt his body slipping from the adhesive that held coherency and biology together, and if it was not now, then she would love him for all her days left in her frail body, but if he told her, and he knew that he must tell her, she would never love him again.
Once his body and spirit passed on, she would re-evaluate their lives together, and she would only shed tears for herself. He had been a well-enough liked man during his lifetime, but if she did not cry for him, then he was sure no one would.
Perhaps his death rattle would reveal his hidden malignancies, these tumors of his conscience that he knew were real and raw, more gaping and tangible that any of the jargon and esoteric code scribbled on his blue chart—but instead, he closed his pretty blue eyes and let her warm body clutch his; he let himself rise and fall to the fleshy weeping of her body.
He felt her tears wash through his shirt, and he lay there, half-dead, pretending to be dead, and allowed himself to believe
“this is better”.
She was not beautiful anymore, but this was all he had.

II. A Great Death
Thomas lay in prostration before his organ—his organs ticking on, but slowing with the metronome to find a means to an end. The wrinkles of the old man contorted his blunt features into something resembling of deformity and sadness, and the signs of age pockmarked his fleshy tissue in discoloration. The fat old man lay draped in his dark robes and loose skin, like the undulation of tides under a cloak of night, it breathed.
Thomas waited.
He waited for either his survival, or he waited for Charon to float through on the sunbeams to collect this heavy burden of man, yet he held on tight to wait for the lovely golden-haired muse that he knew must arrive first. He waited
for the arrival of his opus. He tried to
tempt her with the stench of his death.
Thomas breathed on, lingering, fingers snatched into themselves and rested on his great belly, waiting. He stared at the window panes, groping for his muse with gaudy and disgusting expressions, and on a flicker of refracted light that sparkled like all the beautiful roses he had ever seen, rose to compose a final chord of enormous proportions—his life’s work, the single melody that would raise spirits, hearts, and his fame higher from beyond the grave, rose to draw off the wine of inspiration, and fell in death upon his organ to create a repulsive cacophony.

III. Fate

It was on a lawn that was not her own
the day Mabel caught a bee in her wrinkled fists. The stinger, the searing pain,
injected through fine needlepoint into the loose folds of her
too-old flesh that fell over themselves.

Mabel smiled, teeth crooked and exposed, slightly browned like fruit left
too-long under warm, hostile conditions.
The corners of her eyes (that had seen tanks roll in, piles of her too-dead family lay
as cadavers for the experimentation of the wretched turkey
Goebbels) pulled taut from the crevices where they had rested.

The bee had taunted her for years; the bees cooing their “ichs” and “herr, herr”, as if
taunting her to join the family,
natural lineage. She squeezed tighter with her too-frail fingers,
harsh angles of bone sans fat (like the emaciated
bodies she had loved and lost),
and Mabel smiled, smiled, hysterically smiled
as the bee buzzed its death rattle, “reich, reich, reich”.

She had followed the buzzing S.S. across the lawns of the world,
stalking, led only by the commandments of buzz
like broken glass, resonating through the silence she knew
could only be so quiet in the absence of children, of children taking showers,
and so letting down her white tangles,
baring the baldness of her misery,
growing wild-eyed as sin,
Mabel lurched.
Contorting like a phoenix from ashes, she rose
like Neptune bursting from the sea, and falling back slowly,
infinitely weightless,
age in the wind,
back on her haunches,
smiling, smiling, hysterically smiling,
fell into her mortality, and found that
they had won at last,
like she knew they always would.

Date: 2007-11-27 15:07 Subject: (no subject) Security: Public

( christmas wishlist!! )