Sticky Beak
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The Skinny
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...life in small Northern towns, working for assholes, boys who refuse to become men, synthetic personalities, anorexic models and their link to emotional scarring, bad marijuana trips, crazies on BC Transit, beer, piece of shit cars, living out of a suitcase paycheck to paycheck, unrequited love, Seinfeld, minimum-wage jobs, broken New Year�s resolutions, and over-limit Visa accounts.
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Lost A nuclear shit missile has exploded in the backyard of my life. It's resulted in a fallout that I never imagined possible, and now I find my own mind and heart and everything that I thought comprised my molecular constitution trapped in a holocaust of sorts where piece by piece I'm being ripped apart, seperated from the pieces that make me whole, starved and emotionally gassed in a room full of screaming, tormented cries. Grotesque distortion of my former reality into a Dali-esque unrecognizable shape. I'm lost, blind in the darkness and groping furiously at my surroundings for an explanation, some kind of guidance or hint of direction. But no matter how desperatly I claw or plead or rage and beat against this darkness, ultimately the result is the same. Barren unknown. Darkness. Sadness. Anger. Bitter Disappointment. An orphan of my own making, apparently... no commonality left between myself and those shoulders that now appear to attach themselves to strangers I struggle to recognize. I'm desperate to shed the weight of it all... to find my way back to light and levity and joy and union. Instead I realize I need to withdraw, pull it all in and envelope it within the confines of my dark and scaled wings to protect not only myself but the strangers belonging to those shoulders... create an oasis of peace in solitude and memories. It's not forgiveness or acceptance - two things I have discovered are impossible for me here in this distorted alternate universe - but it's the best I can offer to myself or those shoulders. It's still dark here in this lonely oasis, but at least I am soothed by the opportunity and conversation of dreams. I feel myself disintegrating, cell by cell, and may ultimately lose myself and everything else that once furnished my utopic fantasy... But for now, this is all I'm capable of maintaining. It's the only way that I can preserve enough of myself to continue rising with each new day instead of laying down with the darkness. One day I hope to emerge, to rise from the ashes and dismemberment of this holocaust and rediscover the pieces I've abandoned. Reacquaint with the shoulders and morph back into the person I was, or at least a version more recognizable than the specter that currently lives inside my bedroom mirror. |