the summer of love ended in a heated argument that grew fast from some whispered words in the next room - the winter of hate lasted for three an a half years - long enough to find yourself - long enough to discover yourself - long enough to forget yourself - i kept a photo of the apollo eleven lunar modual in my pocket - she wrote her details on the back of it and said - i'll see you on the moon someday - i smiled, and replied- why stop there? - she was the only person i could go to an art-gallery with - she was quiet and rarely spoke whenever in the presence of art, music, poetry, words - this was almost bad enough - in the presence of artists, she distracted me - i put on my head-phones and listened to some music - we met in the city square and walked around, oblivious to the hundreds of years of history we were walking through - though in three and a half years, we would've made our own history - three of us would be dead, and the rest of us wished we were
he was the type of guy to wear a knife and tell you about it - i poured him a drink, looking his wife in the eyes, trying to gauge his intentions through her honest soul - i couldn't be certain - the waves crashed outside the stain-glassed windows, somehow fueled by the relentless grey winter rain - you shouldn't be driving in this weather, he mumbled as he stroked his moustache - i shouldn't be driving at all, i replied - i took a swig straight from the bottle - a not so subtle fuckyou to tell him to go fuck himself - he laughed with his accent - you know, you cannot intimidate me - he was right - he's fucking goddamn house intimidated me enough, and there was nothing i could do to save myself - there was no way i could get into his head - i took another swig from the bottle - deep and hard - long and smooth - it couldn't hurt - as i was give in, as i was about to confess, she leaned over slow and low and took hold of the bottle that sat next to me on the couch - looking me straight in the eye, she begun twisting the cap off the bottle with her toungue - lizardlike precision and an evil snake like sexuality
people - fucking people - jesus fucking christ - i was drunk in a field, screaming to the sky - my hair in strains from the poetry and sweat, and it started to rain - the grass was waist high and thrashed violently in the wind - i had reached the end - my throat hurt - my arms waved and cut through the wind like blind knives, tearing apart the world around me - my shirt was long gone, so were my family and friends - jesus fucking christ, so was everyone - i was bleeding from the chest, but had no recollection of how that happened - i took deep dark evil swigs from the bottle - i allowed myself that luxury - i allowed myself to succumb to the self-torturing i'd spent a lifetime trying to avoid - my words and poetry continued to be screamed to the sky, but they were making less and less sense - becoming more absurd, more bizarre - they were becoming unsound - i tasted the rain as it begun to fall through my hair and onto my face - i tasted a strangely comforting mixture of sweat and liquor - the comfort caught me off guard, and i lost my feet and fell onto my back - laughing like the doomsman - above me the sky moved in slow motion - i could only just see it through the thrashing grass that now begun to whip me like wet leather - and just before i drifted off, and allowed the gods and demons of my life to take me away forever, i saw the existence of being fold into and onto itself, obliterating any proof that there was any existence at all in the first place
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