The Disablement Trilogy | Alexander T. Damle

Blood Orange

Look drop dead

Free for all downwards

Quantic quartic

Redundant

Resplendent

Clinical subliminal

Ending perpetual

Free associate

Bullet clip magazine

Make your choice all choices

Bare faced back drops

Flame out

God save the girl

Godless

Loveless

We are but the ether's atoms

Forever, never

Cyclical, parabolic

Why get up

When you can just lie there?

You with your last word

And yet the sun also rises

(always rises).

Pink and purple

And blood orange

Plains burn red

Burn bright

Burn out

God forgive these angry bastards

President God King

God kill the girl.

For once

We all die together

But still we all die alone

Together

Alone

Begin again

Disappear.

Overdose

Godless looking upwards star search castigation castrated. Forever nevermore lifeless loveless soulless heartless.

Bending down to pick up a penny off the ground your universe comes unstitched and in between the cracks in the sidewalk, you see a reflection of the world after we’re all dead, and you feel a general warmth and lightheadedness come amongst you.

Then you go insane.

Or you always were insane, can never quite tell. Pull your way up the walls by your bleeding fingers, nails ripped out down to the quick, macabre streaks chart your upward course, a reminder to all who look on from below that the only place we can go is up, aim for the moon, if you miss you’ll hit a star, etc. etc. etc. then you reach the top of the wall and, as you’re pulling yourself over, you lose your grip and fall and your spine snaps as you hit the pavement.

Piecemeal superstructures, cannibalizing themselves.

Someday the stars will all burn out and we’ll be pulled into the last energy, big bang afterbirth, at the centre of the universe, and in that moment we will know God and we will call her our lover.

Phantasmagoria of hearts wrenched from chests, slammed to the ground, and stomped into mush.

Live the dream.

If I had all the time and all the money in the world

I would

This very evening

Purchase a .45 semi-automatic handgun and a single round

And paint my brains all over this wall.

If I had very little time and no money

I would

This very evening

Steal a rope

And hang myself.

Instead I have enough time and enough money

And I spend almost every dollar I have on home remedies to a psychological ailment

That can never be cured

(Doc says its not a death sentence, but says instead I’ll have to live always with it)

Only held at bay for a few brief moments of bliss (pornography, all of it).

And I spend almost every second I have

Convincing myself to die.

But the tragedy of it is

The line between me and the other two hypothetical me’s is hope.

I still, somewhere, in some deep dark place hidden behind some nameless organ

Have some shred of hope left.

So each night, I try to dispel it.

And each morning, I wake up all the same.

Epilogue

Ha ha, all a joke. I'm fine. You're fine. We're all fine. This is fine. Ignore that everything is on fire, and that statues of angels all bleed from their eyes.