The alarm blares in my senses like rush hour traffic.
My eyes still sore,
my throat still red,
my body still scarred and battered.
My heart pounds at the thought of my days past,
thoughts of the day ahead,
of twisted triumph.
I wake up.
I get up and turn off the machine that I use
to drag me from my blissful forgetting,
my rapturing ignorance;
and then I look into the mirror.
My eyes are rimed red and blood shot,
my face a swallow grey and sunken.
It is hardly a face,
and more or less indistinguishable
from the face that used to me mine.
I grab my sunglasses and place them over my eyes,
my hair,
a dirty patch perched atop my skeleton head,
hangs limp in my face.
I hunger now.
I walk outside.
The sunlight burns my skin,
my face turns from the sun,
I long to curl up and die.
My eyesight clears
and the jarring angles of the city come into view.
Tall buildings rotting and stinking with decay,
and graffiti,
a plague,
covers their sides,
as well as the scarce vegetation.
There are no trees,
no life.
Unless you count the almost lifeless homosapiens,
almost lifeless.
This mutant plague
consumes everything in it's path,
a picture of violence felt
on the very bones of the city.
Every window is futilely barred to it.
Every road has hole in it,
which causes you to drop suddenly
with your mouth shooting off
like whips and flame,
arms flailing to keep you up.
But the worst part is not the plague,
nor the lifelessness.
But rather the end of the beginning,
the catalysis of the plague,
the takers of prize.
Prize is the god of hallucinations,
and eventually...
death.
This being shows you who you really are,
the taker and giver of life.
They walk up and down the road
peddling their prizes,
selling death.
I sit on the corner bus stop.
I watch a girl being taken by a man,
open,
her chest bare,
her eyes wide and pleading to me.
there is no hope for her.
She is lost.
With in minutes she is gone,
her arm draped over the dumpster's edge,
the maggots and flies
gorging themselves on her warm flesh;
she had gone to meet the end of all.
The man shakes.
the prize from her he takes for himself.
His convulsions cease,
and he spits on her corpse.
A whore she is called.
Oh, well...
I get up and walk the path
I had taken so many times before,
to my prize.
the building I enter is infected,
the plague feeds on it as the flies,
the structure as old and decaying as the
dumpster girl.
A fitting end for the prize.
It is only
one
girl
The inside is rank
with the stench of rot,
and putrescence,
my life,
my home.
I take a look from a window
across the river to the other side.
Where prize is a myth,
told by the other children
to scare themselves.
The man waits for me
in the room;
he hands me my prize.
I laugh at him as he reaches for his
new girl.
Her eyes are heavily lidded,
to hide the red.
Red means passion,
lust,
love,
and death.
In other words...
PRIZE
As I leave the room
she smiles.
As I leave the building
she screams.
It has claimed another victim
who couldn't pay.
I take the prize for myself.
I calm.
My head feels detached,
and then I feel;
no worries,
no fear,
no ugliness,
no happiness.
I feel alone.
Then my world is how I remember it.
I am flying.
The plague is gone,
the lights evaporate
into Technicolor bubbles.
the children read about
the end of the world
in their newspapers
as the people of the prize
float overhead.
The dumpster girl shakes her head at me.
I am ashamed now.
I walk out of the dream world
into reality.
I feel the need to end.
I want to end.
I walk down the road.
My head is airy.
My legs are lead.
My skin is on fire.
I climb to the bridge that links
the other side and the city,
the bridge between love and lust.
People shout and jeer below my perch,
I am atop the bridge now.
My end awaits in the
murky water below me.
I lean over.
I fall.
I feel whole again.
My hair whips around my face,
the people scream,
the wind roars in my ears,
my laugh is full of life.
And then...
I fly.
View User's Journal
and today's topic is...
 |
