The Dream.







Colourful Medicine Bottle:


Jesus Christ, it’s cold in the city. It’s only just the end of September, yet I see the balding tops of tree’s, the yellow envy of a sky set a gentle blaze of a setting sun. It was a beautiful rendition of a heart’s surrender to it’s eventual break. These thoughts have sharp edges, each dagging deeper as they bounce off the confines of my sleepy skull. Awkward memories are justified in these self-inflictions, but the thoughts are my own doing. I break free from the rhythms of living a life, I watch the rhythm die.

I walk down town, stepping on cracks on the concrete sidewalks. Rustling deep through my pockets, till I fumble across a cold glass, with a scratchy-scrape texture. I take it out and gaze at the light beam out the colourations of the bottle, it’s surface lit up by the dying light of day. The small scratches and imperfections on the surface highlighted, I could see the world through the eyes of a dormant, inanimate object, and it was fucking beautiful. I plunged my finger through it’s open cap, prying forth a pill or two. With a lustfully insane look of glee on my face, I dry swallow the couple of pills. Down my narrow throat they roll. To work their splendid, bitter magic. To rot along with my innards. Five minutes remained of this life, soon a transition will be taken place. An angel to his ascension, if you will.

Beauty had transformed, also. The bottle is making me see what it bears mute witness to everyday, to the sterile hands of a doctor, to the unwelcoming lips of a reluctant scared patient.

Swirling clouds swelled into faces of anger, I could feel the concrete underneath melt and suck me in.
Oh…Oh, god what have I done? I’ve underestimated the force of gravity, no longer is it content of keeping me tied to this a giant floating turd of a country, happily swimming in gods toilet bowl, it now wants me in deeper. I pull my legs through the melting concrete, sloshing through the sidewalk. I couldn’t die like this, I cant succumb to them. I tumble open through a door. Anywhere but the swallowing  sea of sidewalks. I crawled through shade. The cold was entering my head, through the space between my ears, it filled the capacity with ease. Soon I could feel myself floating peacefully, my head bopped as I hit the living room ceiling craning my neck to it’s side. The view of a condemned man, the crucible of a hanged man. Don’t celebrate my death! My hands crawled along the high wall and onto the ceiling. So, gravity abandons it’s victim? Well, fucker, I never needed you. Let me down… Good Christ, let me down! I swirled in the air, spinning and spinning. Watching the room blur into obscurity.
Look at all the puppets…now it’s their turn to watch a show. To see a suspended person on the strings.
A jittered crowd laughs in disbelief. It’s a chorus composed from the devils own many tongues.


Fuck…I’ve done it now, man. I’ve found out where I was the whole time. In the rapid dream of a dead man. I’ve made a hole in the back of my head. I could hear a “Michael, where are you?” from an unfamiliar voice as I lowered my eyelids to die with the rhythm of life. I muttered “back here.” as my eyes rolled to the back. The last thing I saw, was a light from the distant house of my Rebecca.

I was lowered into the mud with a thin wooden box as a companion. Atleast this is an ending where the victim doesn’t know it’s a bad one.


Dedicated to loneliness and whiskey.