I lay here in the bathroom floor, my eyes are yellow
from last night's puss,
some-days they are like the sun too.
I lay here and think of
how I arrived here - in the juxtaposition of
space and time,
or
perhaps
in transposition of
joy and sorrow.
Last night while in the bar, I played another
deceptive cadence,
I played on and on:
"let the music last until
my fingers run out of breath" I told myself;
There was silence and tears amidst
the tone friendly
drunkards. I don't forget the ovation,
those sparkling eyes, it was strangely beautiful
like always. But you know what, at the end of it
I didn't hear what I played. I heard
another voice.
Do you know how the music goes on
After the music has stilled?
My back aches now,
the walls are littered with
parallel lines of water, but why does this smell
of ammonia invade my
nosebuds? It's bitter,
God save me.
Where is that voice?
I feel safe.
Last night I rose, I rose in that cadence, and
I rose higher and higher, and then in that momentary
crescendo of intonation
I fell.
The end of music is like the end of a love affair-
And the love that stays on hurts
the most. The love that stays on.
The redolent voice
of the past.
(Beautiful things that heal,
go astray and
kill.)
I am hurt,
my backbone aches, poor are them whose
heart don't ache.
I wake up here in the bathroom floor
of a Picasso Deli- a left liberal graffiti
of Lord Shiva etched in the wall
looking over pissing mortals- trying to say
something, but
what do pictures say when the Lord is
silent?
My hand stepped over a broken syringe
that reminded me of those noir-novels, so effulgent
in violence and decadence, writing about
fallen people like
me.
The voice has stilled now.
I wake up here in the bathroom floor and I
wonder if I arrived here in the
ambulance of forgetfulness or in the
bubble of a pill-laced dream that burst
too soon, heaving a mortal sigh. I lie here
and think, and think, and think
if music couldn't heal what
could?
Perhaps death,
but
I will live.
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