Monday, October 3, 2011
From "Virus Monologues" by Durand J. Compton
Temporarily out of the loop, the sudden confrontation of suicide and it had been so long since the self-destruction had struck so close to homeless shelters dressed up as cafes and bars. It is 2 a.m. cold as hell Nebraska December night. The ground is frozen. Solid, man. Blake said little while Blake printed volumes. The bass is without rhythm and the presses have finally stopped. Spines break beneath time’s crippling apathy. One note read, “and death shall have no dominion”, the other, “life is so dark, I can never find the light”. He blessed the dark by stubbing out the candle, snuffing out the smoke. This place is too dangerous for children. Between the broken dreams and shattered glass, you’re bound to slice a vein. There’s never enough coffee and if we’re all so depressed and isolated and alienated. It’s our own damn fault. Everyone is too afraid to have straightforward, honest and open conversation. Never, ever say what you mean. Chatter like ultra-hip monkeys until all the slang, all the distortion renders your message utterly illegible. Or, at least, a bastard communiqué. I can empathize, but you won’t get an ounce of sympathy out of me. Sucker. “If a couple aspirin kills the headache, I wonder what a couple of bottles will do.” Insert the key, the tube slides down the throat, turn the ignition, pump the stomach. Time enough for one last trip.