Breakdown Season

Oct 1

Oct 1 Breakdown Season

i see the fragments everywhere now:
i spot the cracks, the crevices,
the shedding of shells and shards,
flying off like freebound scrapnel—
the ache of everyone flaking away,
fading into the sunlight of day;
falling into the shadows it evokes—
caving in, the rush of a dive's soak;
reversing into the drenches of delusion,
leaning back on fragile crutches,
sinking into novel depths,
aiming for wasted and wasteful,
waning into weaker figure;
scavenging for stronger fixes—
and in doing so, breaking apart
yet again.

it's breakdown season
and the streets are scrapped of good intent—
the days are drunk on laughter,
the nights are sculpted by screams;
the air reeks of restlessness:
the roaring rush of approach and away,
every arrival morphing into escape—
stillness distorts from boredom to death:
running replaces all forms of coming and going
the only signs of life become racing
heartbeats on the brink of a heart attack—
the movement is incessant.

desires covered in the creases of cruelty—
cataloguing breaking points
pining to pick things apart
to quench the sudden sickly curiosity
to itch the scratch so statically numb
hunger's become a begging growth
that gropes growls and groans
seeking soft surface for teeth to sink in—
the movement is violent.

everything is degraded into lack—
drinking bleach replaces showers
beds are nailed to the ceiling
fevers of fervor are medicated by
neighbors' cabinets and the alarms of pharmacies
the break of a window turns into music!
pouring gasoline on skin
setting fires to feel warm
climbing barbed-wire fences for kicks
flowing with the vibrations of a shaking body
every tremor and fidget a source of pleasure
peace comes from existing in a thousand places
at once finishing races lost of meaning
until moments become multidimensional
harmony comes from a thousand thoughts
hosting an endless match of matadors
in desperate attempts of attention
time consists no longer of seconds
but of changes in action—
the movement is maddening.

the streets rattle with echoes of psychosis;
everyone tiptoes with a siren's dance
through sidewalks flooded with trash:
bits of soul and will lying in ugly color,
flecks of precious identity
forgotten in the fury of flaring fast and far—
and the piles only grow into glowering towers;
as no one is a cleaner,
no one a collector,
no one a creator—
each and everyone
a shedder,
a shredder,
blinded both by light and night;
drowning in dirt—
the streets crackle from careless intent
of vicious crushers, clueless and cackling,
faces ripped into grin like some sordid stain—
but no matter how much i try to wipe off
this smile smudging my face,
i am not a cleaner:
and no matter how much we care about our kicks,
none of us is a carer.

we all watched the death of control,
but no one attended the funeral:
bloodlust lingered in the twinkle of
our eyes like black holes—
and with the last twitch we were gone,
scattered in a blur of scratches and bites,
grating away the thick skin of scars,
opening the doors of every wound,
gnawing for the high of infestation,
clawing at stitches,
pulling at loose thread,
unravelling the sacred silence of sanity—
sewn so solemnly;
during the days when
fragments clinged stuck in makeshift repair;
held together despite past neglect
like some sick miracle—
shaking all integrity of any former identity,
mind back to making masks from memory,
gazing with glazed eyes at reality crumbling,
undoing, unbecoming, till we come undone—
each baring the raw figure of empty object,
no longer subject, a pass-around vessel;
devolved into outfit, a costume,
a flailing frail freak,
a hollow hurricane
revolving around wreckage,
a dissipating ghost
dissolving into ruin—
and no one attended our funeral.