||[Apr. 15th, 2014|08:54 pm]
a poem about a lovesick ghost.|
I want to kiss Christina Ricci from the film Casper all like can I keep you, can I keep you, can I steep you in deep view of a mug with a mossy kind of peat hue? Probably first off I should greet you, since from a neighboring plane I have peeped you. I seek to make contact and meet you if I don’t let my otherworldly inhibitions defeat you. Big bang or not, we all now own this plot and while I’m only corporeal, its like I’m in constant memorial of your phantom glory hole. Like I’m a burial at sea of someone you can not see (and my body never really sunk all that deep). My feelings always floating at the surface, just cursive tattoos deciphered by the cognizant. My heart on my sleeve I wore like an intoxicant and you can rub it in my face to no real consequence for a ghost nitwit is no threat being in conflict with. You just float right by me or is it the other way around? There is gravity in my heart but it doesn’t keep me on the ground, and it makes no audible sound in the beating so the only telltale proof of it's being is that I am always feeling down.
I'm no hologram, no other world telegram, no goldfish with a tag in a pet shop plastic bag. Thinking back, I’m sort of see through and I’m glad for the times that I’ve had while this translucent hand looks for another to grab and to hold, to wrap and to fold in it’s bad little fingers. This death spittle lingers near my lips and I’m just another dead ringer in the mist for a sad sack soul saved by the bell's toll with a hefty penance now owed. Jars by my bed host the organs I once fed, now sarcophagus fuel coated in bile and drool, and the remainder was burned and rests now in urns cradled safe and sound in bedsheets down-turned. And it’s the arrangement of this menagerie that allows my soul this post-life battery and curbed degradational flattery. Maybe it’s just me, but its easier to not be. I believe to not be or un-be more suits me.
All blacks fade to grey and I may, someday, in a post mortem timeline sort of way. So don't fright and run away. I'm alright, and you're safe and your lips grow as soft as mine ever could. Don't look back to Hollywood, don't look back to those days and I won't think back on my animated ways and I won't think back on my delayed decay. For in the stitch of the night when we have our way, it will be pitch yet bright, and granite and clay. You are flesh and bone merely living alone until joining me on the plane that I roam, the plane I call home. Your once lame sight of half-life now fully aglow. Our past life, if cast right, will submit to the fray. My wait until then is a series of no-time astray where my thoughts relay on a life well kept I somehow left spent a few breaths ahead of my game. I have to be more than just memories inherited to a family dispirited. There's more to my legacy than latent atrophy and high school track trophies! I’m not so transparent! My legacy by now should be inherent but I can not betray my post-life as a rebel, capturing the tremble as a stye in the eye of the devil. Just existing in his periphery until the day he can be rid of me, the anxious tooth-sucking kid of me, scratching helpless at the air where the skin of me used to be.