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Upstairs

By Jack Blare

Upstairs

The girls go home to fuck their boyfriends

And I stay behind long after

To dig myself a grave upon the ridge,

And watch the glowing coals they left behind

Ignite the forest in flames.

Far below

In the tiny lights of a Dexedrine anthill

Signs waste their meanings

Pointing out arguments and ugly clothes

At stumbling costume parties,

Where rebellions of nonsense fester and grow.

Drunken and fevered,

Alone, heavy, high on night.

My crimes whispered in voices with the solemn authority of hurricanes.

I murdered gemstone ladies in mud assaults,

Dulled them with digital device,

Left them behind in the dirt.

This ridge is insanity liquor store glass attacks,

Forests crawling with fat spiders dressed in shiny suits of keys.

Tequila is precious don’t let it slip.

Coherence is precious don’t let it slip

Away into the trees,

Where vengeful nature spirits wait with drawn knives like sickle moons.

We are born into brothels and paradises,

Blind if you see only a brothel,

Blinder still if only a paradise.

Stained glass is everywhere, pierced by firefly beams of intuition.

Untouchable forms move mysteriously beyond the divide,

Shades of undreamt colours that touch on random moments in time.

Wild music explodes like gunpowder,

Black patterns set against the multitude of white noise.

Expression angers crumbling walls.

Liberty fidgets in tight-lipped formation,

Assaulted by guitar the rambling Drunk Prophet,

Tripped up by cold truth at the crossroads of pain and pleasure.

Gutted by bass

At the heart of raw thrill and emotion,

Independent unwavering partygoers

Follow the constant heartbeat drumbeat

Of their treading feet,

And wander adventurously through twenty-dollar visions.

Love is like a candle,

Everything goes black when you get too far away.

Depression reigns with carbon monoxide blues.

Hope is a cup of cold coffee

Tossed out the car window.

So different, but so much the same.

Only the gravedigger

Can climb back out of his creations

But Hollywood’s orgasm is a plastic contraction.

Media chains are the hands that sculpt modern mass murderers,

And Treasure Island

Was only ever just a story.

Humanity’s greatest flaw

Is the idiotic urge to improve on nature.

Slick robotics, designer flesh.

Independence floods down the drain

As glorious titanium obelisks of techno society

Lord over a sick world, coughing up blood and tar choked phlegm.

I pray that we don’t forget the sound of music, value of creation.

I pray that knowledge isn’t confined to eclipses before it can run to the sun.

I pray our lessons aren’t forgotten.

As we forget our crippled, imprisoned and starving.

As we turn our glazed eyes towards Internet and wireless release

I pray we don’t forget our humanity.

Upstairs,

The girls go home to fuck their boyfriends,

But memories linger up here forever.

I dug myself a grave up on that ridge,

While I waited for the world to pass by,

Having sex with the starlight, regretting the sun.

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