Monday, April 9, 2012

No Strange Mark On The Map

This city is an ulcer in my skull. It screams soft whispers of neural imprints which I now know cannot be inferred as anything other than the fabrications of a raving, frothing mind.

I pass a quiet street overlooking the water – the contrived recollection of sitting on a bench, hand in hand, watching the gulls swoop down - NO, THAT IS A LIE.

The café which you always adored, protracted orders of lattés and pastries - IT DOESN'T EXIST, STOP DECEIVING YOURSELF.

I try to tell myself that you existed – exist – but nothing can prove that, and all evidence points – screams to the contrary. Photos – manipulable. Memories – implantable. Emotions – not feasible.

Deathly languor and heated dispassion creep up the hair slowly becoming erect on my arms and neck, and a slovenly leaning backwards into the driver's seat allows full wallowing into all things septic lurking in the dark recesses of whatever I might be.

There are two options: I burn, or this city does. And because the pantheons of hell are no strange mark on the map to me, there is but one choice - this city. So it shall be.

It will burn.