sour aftertone

there is no way to start but starting. there is no way out but out. there is no way for me to will my body into ink except to stop thinking. i dont want to be lucid and i dont want to rush through unconsciousness. a thousand underlined words under a creeping wine stain. ridiculous, i dont even drink wine. i prefer the cheap security in beer, the watered down confidence of the uncomfortably bitter. sometimes I slip a little lemon into it when im feeling benign. slip away a pill of will into the spilt venom on the table, make me stop this. im looking for my reflection in the pool of inebriating wetness. your words are slurry, my head is clear, so why the fuck is it im struggling to decide? what is it i have to say, why are all the cards turning my way? why is it im seeing remedy jars named after faces, smear them on my skin like just another tomorrow and take them out for a ride in the sun, right after i take a shower, wash away my pride with songs that remind me of you, and walk into perfume once more. walk down the stairs, out the door, into your car reeking of the intoxicating ecstasy of burnt roses and heaving, moaning bass. change the gears honey and drive me into a climax that second by second tattoos tears unto the inside of my throat. Sometimes i drink vodka. Honey, honey, honey quite contrary. its a self inflicted gag reflex to choke back what i should shatter against the tabern floor. ive had good training darling, bring a camera, bring a camera and photograph yourself running down my throat and somewhere into my soul. ill push you in and keep you there, you'll always have somewhere to turn back to. dont you worry darling, you will never call yourself homeless again, or run away from broken innocence and the pornography of the naively violated. may your giving never be turned into the self-serving, self-emaciating pleasure of the poor and the incorrectly broken. Settle into my cracks, you can hide there from the outside and still see sunlight, maybe even peek into my core, that in a couple thuosand units of time might go up in flames and consume me in myself. I'm weakly clothed darlin, dont you want to undo it and unwrap me into something i can recognize? let me feel your crying hands on me like expensive fabric pulled out of the attic. call me into feeling the where and the how of who i am. let the irony of every thrust be nothing more than a word on paper, ink on land, scars on skin.