I'd Like To Make A Sandwich

I have this friend, at least that’s what he introduces himself as, that has taken to playing tricks with my sense of self control to the point I swear that my friend is steadily changing the colour of the night sky, for his amusement and my distress. Some days I find myself in his/her (an indecisive mid-op transsexual who’s not sure in which direction the process is going to go) belongings searching for a lithium prescription. Aside from the mood swings, substance abuse, pending trail for indecent expose to a minor and a few petty assault charges, my friend can be a real hand full. Most of the time I think my friend doesn’t even care about me, often due to months of blatant neglect. Despite all the Ills I have endured at the hands of this fickle friend of mine, I have to give credit where it is due, no matter how much it irks me to do so. Of all my friends it s/he is one of the most generous and has been instrumental in my meeting the many friends I have today, that’s aside from all the awesome things/moments/lesbians my eyes have beheld alongside my friend.

Hence, I dedicate this hang over to you, Dearest fucking ‘Life’

To Port My Son

So this is the moment. Skin of satin and will of barbs, so much like my own mind that the reflection frightens the scars to bleed with fervour. Would I give my hands grievance, it would be to deny them the warmth of your scorn in the fickle hope of momentary embrace. So upon the hardened discontent of my anguish I sharpen the digits so they may clench between fists, shield and blanket. So intent leads the means of design and fear impedes action, we will bear silent witness to the mangled visage of fickle desire as it claws its place in the fleeting flesh. Burn as the tendons may, the forge rages to procure the steel to coat what was left of the cadaver I call my heart and parade as my soul. Though beyond the gilded winds that trickle from my quivering lips, sleep instances of shattered sight and misread scripts, in which no part has yet been heralded to hold my vocation. Too blunt now is the shovel that builds and buries what is, was and could be the child I knew to be me. Morn this as you would the limbs of a crippled dreamer.

The Smell in My Mouth

What is that, I do believe I smell a gun? Perhaps it’s not so much the machine but its intent. The promise is that of a clean repositioning of one’s mortality in a far more manageable state. That is unless you miss. Even if your aim is steady and oh so very true, I must enquire as to the elegance of aftermath. Life in itself is a tricky mess of desire and expectation with subjectivity playing with the circuitry. When your world goes from cacophony to quite, outside the eight inches of dead space, chaos ensues as every ugly part of those who supposed themselves close to you starts eating its surroundings. What then do we do with this mangled memory of a body that at one time could live in and through us. To whom do we turn too to find the finger that pulled the trigger, for lord known’s we need one to make us, the left behind, feel sain, if only for a moment.