Reign XII

The world was ending, but we were dancing
Our merry little jig, two fisting beers,
Smoking “don’t worry about it,” asking
Questions about LD50s and fear.
The day I traded my brain for a chip,
Nothing changed. I was born of Rage and Love
To begin with, was sick of the world’s shit
By seventeen, but not in the sense of
Eating a bullet. No, I was aggrieved.
I wanted only to dance and sing, suck down
Cherry vitriol and spit fire (believe
Me, I have enough hate to go around.)
I will not be silenced, will not be shamed.
With pen and ink, blood and bone, I proclaim.

Reign VI

But in your hands, they are greater than gold,
What would be platitudes in other paws
Maybe that’s bias, storge turning old
Saws into shiny chestnuts, giving claws
To clauses grown stale and trite from misuse.
But I’ve never claimed to be impartial.
I’ve spent years learning on your lap, tissue
Teaching lessons about life, love, martial
Law and its romantic applications,
When to bite and kick, overthrowing tin-
Pot dictators, how to lift up nations.
(“The emperor’s sin was in delusion.
See, he lacked the wit to embrace his id;
The shame was never in going naked.”)

Reign IV

Each point of light another jagged edge,
Spotlight circle cutting and burning like
A surgeon’s laser. We wanted to dredge
Up something true delivered via mic.
(Ninety minutes and no intermission,
That was what we prayed for. Quick. Efficient.
A pie to the face or manumission,
Cheap laughs, tears, gasps, anything sufficient
To reach inside our chests, hold up our hearts,
And show them to us. Anthropomancy
Revealed what our minds could not, set apart
As they were, feeling from idle fancy.)
(We learned something abecedarian:
Leopard print and sequins aren’t Tyrian)

Reign III

The promises broke like glass, bright and sharp
Diamond caltrops against a black velvet
Floor. They were beautiful still in the harm
They brought us, to their infinite credit.
The pain reminded us of the power
They held. What could fascinate could also
Obliterate, what lifted could leave dour,
And what got us high brought about our fall.
We lived in a network of stimulants,
Danced with depressants, experimented
On our minds, self-appointed scientists
Desperate to synthesize gold from lead,
Or Icarus, star-gazing from a ledge,
Each point of light another jagged edge.

Overture, Pt. 1

No matter how long I stare at it, the ceiling doesn’t change. This must be what it’s like to be a corpse.

* * *

There are too many people in this apartment and no one knows anyone else, but that’s the way it goes when the club empties out and someone announces to no one in particular,

Hey, I’ve got synthemesc back at my place.

Not even sure whose place it is, if it’s anyone’s, if the proper tennant is out of town or asleep in another room or cut to pieces in a bag in the fridge. Probably not the fridge thing. That’s where they kept the wine, and you’ve seen the wine. You’ve seen the synthemesc too, but you opt for the wine because it’s one thing to be in a strange environment, surrounded by unknown quantities, intoxicated to the edge of reason, but if you popped the pills and your eyes rolled back and you started seeing funny little green ghouls, too? Well, shit, that’s just reckless.

And besides, that’s not why you came here anyway.

You came here because she came here. You came here because you’d been dancing together. One in the morning on a Tuesday night, not exactly a sensible hour to be out. Folks got work in the morning. Kids got school. People got girlfriends and boyfriends, husbands and wives they ought to get home to.

But not you. And not her.

She takes a pull of wine and stands up and announces she has to go to the bathroom. No one pays her any mind, occupied by other things or other realities, but you hear her and you watch her and she’s watching you. Her statement was both an admission and an invitation. She’s making eye contact when she turns. You give her a few minutes to take care of whatever she’s got to take care of, and then you go exploring. The bathroom door is unlocked. The bathroom door is ajar. The light is off.

She’s sitting on the counter, a cigarette in her hand, her eyes staring out the open window. Outside, the city murmurs, tossing and turning in its sleep. You close the distance, put your hand over hers, your fingers on the cigarette.

May I?

I’ve got more.

But I want this one.

The cigarette carries her lipstick with it. Iris. You can’t tell if you taste it or if you smell it, but it’s there. It’s her. She’s there. Ten minutes later, the bathroom door securely locked, her lipstick smeared, your hands on your belt, she tells you,

I’m married.

The words don’t even make sense to you. They don’t resolve into anything meaningful in your brain. She might as well have told you that purple is the cubic root of eleventy-spleen.

You’re what?

I’m married.

What to do with this information. How to process it. You have no answers. Your hands fall limp at your side, your belt still buckled. You have no answers, but you have questions.

Are you happy?

Yes. No. I don’t know.

Where is he? Or she? Or whatever?

He. Business trip. Out of the state.

What are you doing here?

I don’t know!

There are tears in her eyes. You’ve been in the bathroom far too long. Even if no one’s curious about where you went or suspicious about your absence, sooner or later, someone’s going to need to use the facilities. And if she starts moaning, if she starts sobbing, there’s going to be suspicion.

So what are you going to do?

I don’t know. What do you want to do?

It’s a Hell of a question, you think. But then, you know there’s a difference between desire and reality.

I don’t know either. How are you getting home?

I don’t know. I went to the Salarian with friends, but they went home. I could call a cab. Or call them.

Too far to walk?

I live in San Solano.

You laugh. Oh, yeah. Way too fucking far for her to walk.

Well. I’m going to leave.

What? Why?

Why? Why would I stay?

Coffee

Tar water, heal me

Breathe life into this machine

Wind me up again

Valkyrie

Brother, I have been there:

Laid low by the world,

Prostrated at the throne of an absent god

Without even the wit to wonder

Where it all went wrong

 

Brother, I would be there still,

Would take every contusion

And ache and regret with a smile

For the way she picks you up

When you fall

For Kurt, For Bradley, For Layne, For Scott

It started out fun,

The way she made you feel, the

Things you felt she made

 

Disappear. She’s got

Beautiful eyes, doesn’t she?

Got a pretty smile,

 

And she loves to dance.

Desire becomes need, need that

Dances through your veins.

 

But don’t stick around

For last call; you’ve got to leave

Now, while there’s still time.

Addict

I want to inject you

Inhale your scent

Take you in through the skin

Drink you like milk and honey

The Beast, Pt. 96 (Chapter 24)

Hey. How’s it going? Are you doing well? It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? It feels like it has. I was just thinking about you. Curious about how you were doing. Thought I’d call. Thought it might be nice to talk instead of just wondering, you know?

Uh huh. Uh huh. Yeah. Wow, really? That’s great!

Me? Oh, I don’t know. I’ve been alright. Nothing special. Went on a little vacation with the boys recently. Just got back.

Ha ha, yeah, again. Went the same as it always does. Won some money, lost some money. Ate and drank too much. Kind of got a tan.

Anyway, I’m sure you don’t want to hear about that. Same old boring story. Tell me, how’s the family? How’s the job?

Tell me everything.

Well, great. It sounds like things are going great. I’m happy for you. Really.

Listen, I don’t want to keep you. I’m sure you’re busy with all kinds of things. I was just thinking about you, and I thought, you know, I’d give you a call. I’m glad you’re doing well, though. Take care of yourself, okay?

Yeah. Yeah. I… You too. You too. Take care of yourself.

Good bye.

The end. Thank you for reading! Post-mortem on Monday.