You are all aliens to me. Your strained expressions and affected impressions are in no way familiar, your hopes and dreams aren’t what they seem when you wake up in a garden bed with blood on your head and nothing but haze and regrets trailing from your shoe. You’re the ones I never knew. Your world is blighted, benighted, short sighted and boisterous, clamoring in noisy ignorance, staring wide eyed down the camera barrel, dead in my sights, glutted on your precious earthly delights. Yours is a short burning fuse, tumbling white hot debris falling towards the sea, a holy spear piercing the heavens for mere seconds, then gone, burnt out crash landed and lost in the wilderness.
You are distant, you are remote, you are beyond all hope. No one ever wrote down the stories of the glories of your adolescent tragedy, the Polaroids are faded and the faces are replaced with jigsaw pieces, no more tears now, just accept the inevitable and this jumbled existence, all you have left, the blazing final descent. You looked great in that dress. Do you know that there are no galaxies in the furthest reaches? Only postcards, pock marks and crater strike ground zero wastes, every second star you wished upon and fixated on has been cold for centuries. Your astrological apocryphal allegories make no sense in this wretched dimension called ‘time’, not that it ever bothered you anyway.
You are dancing on an iceberg, a pinhead, a shipwreck, you are washed out on the rocks and fallen by the beachhead, you are never to be forgotten, and that is the worst of all the curses I can condemn you with. No oblivion awaits you with soothing embrace, you made sure of that when you gifted them your very face, no rest for those sore legs in wicked kicks face melting licks no light at the end of the subway tunnel and no peace for beatniks and you poor 90’s kids. You did this, you know it and even when the come-down crashes through your front door, when the prophet collapses and convulses on your kitchen floor, when the hangover explodes and crushes you all, when the awful truth finally breaks through, you’ll be too far out to care. Inertia propels you towards the heart of the sun, or plunges you into the piercing atmosphere, or flings you tumbling over and over throughout the never-never, always falling off the edge of the earth, always plummeting succumbing flailing in sickening free fall alone and frozen. There’s no end to find, no final hiding place, just the void, that torturous expanse of nothingness, empty space and an endless blank page.