fisher king's wasteland

the sign at the coffee counter at the gas station says 25 hours, and i guess that's right because that's what they're really selling. we'll be in big trouble the day they stop providing us with such good service. the dark, smooth highways in the early hours, with their visible gusts of dust and icy winds blowing across the high beams, slide beneath us in the quiet of the engine's low rumble, the heat blowing sleep into our faces and the tinny electric nothings of the local station's muzak lulling us goodbye. the trunk is full of gear we think we need and we've got nothing left to say to one another. it's a long drive into the future with nowhere else to go, and we'll just keep on riding until the gas runs out and the motels stop accepting our credit cards. maybe then we'll just stop, maybe then it'll be time to pull out a pack of cigarettes, draw deeply and sigh and look around a bit to see where all that civilization went.

we came in from the desert, large tribes covered in the dust of ancient cultures thirsty for drops of fresh water, and cold for the rays of sunshine we left the desert bound to one another with thick, knotted cords but now with tied hands we slowly thread fibre optic tubes through our ears and eyes and noses and mouths patching, brain to brain, the members of our tribes, stitching ourselves to the edges of the enemy camps the red lights flicker, flash, form droplets of salty water sweated out the unsealed pores to flood the world again build your ark, noah, strong enough to float out the deluge for nothing else we know can survive and when the libraries and the server rooms and the galleries and the museums are all underwater or evaporated, then we can start all over again

we're wearing silly hats bright colours dimmed with the lights bobbles barely bouncing listening to portishead the bass keeping time the warm air-conditioner our hearts and breaths with the silence of a frosty winter's night haunting the external air

sitting and stretching on sun-drenchéd grass sharp spikéd sonnets are piercing my throat scanned to your ear as we all spin around out to the edges where fantasies float centripetal forces are pushing content a tension ejaculate, stringing the sounds a gluing together of my love for you powerful, pressured and knowing no bounds in my mouth, my hearts are beating their beatings down your throat, i stuff my sonnets, and teachings coffee cups, notebooks, and scraps of baked goods strewn about, snowed in by papery winds the skies' legs keep closing, then open again in answer to seventeenth century sins

removing items from my task list mere moments before handing over the keys to the torn down door i smile sadly as i step into the rubble of what was many years a home a warm and fresh and peaceful port in a storm i place my index finger on the trash can and click the trigger banishing to an untouchable digital memory each item in potentia of a universe that all too soon will never exist

a little green turd floating down from above splashing onto my coat it's a note from a dove that's already flown off leaving nothing but sky so i walk on, annoyed but at least my hair's dry

the sun comes out brightly after the rain shining off the wet streets and exposing the treacherous pools of water lurking around the corners the streets are almost empty, too except for the hurried old woman hooting and thumping into the back of the car stopped at the red light everything resolves in silence the lady in front respecting her elder too much to put a fist through her teeth we could tell she wanted to, though.

that's what they call it in soft whispers, and glazed eyes it's god and it's heaven, and mystical ecstacy and they say that drugs confuse people but i thank you, from the bottom of my ringing steel bed as its wheels roll and clatter beneath the flashes of brilliant light as the beeps and footfalls following behind the drip that bitterly nourishes me through characterless swinging double doors past wards of sad people wanting to be better you, wearing your mask and spatterings of my blood my knight in white, righteous, shining fucking armour i thank you for rescuing me from me, from my self from monstrously calm and comfortable darkness i watch, my heart cold, my tears drying as you stitch chains up and around my wrists as you tuck me in, and kiss my forehead, strap me in good night i fall asleep staring through shameful curtains at some tormented guard protecting me from these selfish sins will i wake, some day, from these pills you've drenche...