Dead Not Buried
In celebration we party. No particular reason. We smoke cigars and drink in the day. Beer bottles thrusting. Foaming and spilling. Who cares. Who knows. Whos watching. I left another boy just this morning. I said No. No thank you. Sick of your shit. Goodbye. Your book is in the mailbox. Not my cup of tea I'll take a whiskey thanks. With music and plans for life I make half lunch half dinner. My house. My ways. My time. My comfort. Pastry defrosted. Fresh eggs and bacon. Mushrooms, Tomatoes and Herbs. Knife. Cutting board. Meat. Stop. I see them. Two of them. Fat black and crawling. Sick and disgusting. Inside the thin plastic deli bag they feast. Wings wet and bathing. Juices of room temperature flesh. Feasting. Feastering. Flesh. Blow flies. Black. Black Black Black in and on skin. In and on me. Meat.Fresh.Rotting. Solid skin thick pink and feeling. Fat hairy pigs hot in the mud breathing. Sliced and diced and chopped for soups for breakfasts for pies. Minds eye seeing flies eyes eying unseeing eyes dry. Dead. Bleeding. Crackling. Stop. I am 5 years old. Dads hand on my shoulder. In the middle of no where at a roadside farm cafe. 'What's that Daddy?' 'A fat pig.' Ice cream melting over sticky fingers. I climb higher and lean over the fence for a better look. Stop. I scream. I can't handle. Drop the knife. Shake the bag. Desperate. Get out. Get away. Away. Away. But they hold on. Unmoving. Gripping. Tiny legs clutching at fleshs ridges. Black holes in my universe. Destroyers. I am crushed. They take me. All of me. Suck me in and freeze me. Tear me and twist me. Wrap me in plastic light and tight against my mouth. Drown me in weepings. Unbreathing. Constrict me in time. Faces flashes violent. Unbearable. I am decomposing in the sea while flies enjoy what's left of me. Stop. Friends. Whats your problem, what happened are you okay?
I laugh it off. Shake it off. Off. Off. Off. Twitching. I'm sorry I'm fine it's okay, just a fly just a shock. Laughs shaking straining from my mouth. What a silly thing, such a shame. I won't tell them I never want to eat again. I don't want anything. Cored. I want to stop. Just stop. Stop. Distractions. Wine. Spirits. Weed. Ghosts. Quick escapes to the park. Smiles. Black feelings. Loud laughter. Screaming. Dancing feet thud at the floor. Smoke in the house. Lights off. Strobe thrashing. Towels soaking spilt drinks. Bruises mounting. Tip toe creeping. The sun is gone and almost back again. The last moon my company. I flatten pastry. Cut bananas. Mix spices. Coco and dark berry jam. Deep breaths and straight back. Flies deafly buzzing. Drunk stumbles, thoughts blurring, calm even humming. Dish buttered. Sugar burning and bubbling. Cold hands on hot glass. Watching. Pies packed with vows I think I'll burn my tongue on.