Written Nov. 2012
At this point, we both know it’s over. Your room knows we’re over. Your chest of drawers know. Your walls hanging with pictures of us know. Your sheets suck in the scent of me, only to torture you while you sleep. As you lie there, your mind will unknowingly recognize my scent. And as you reach for me, you’ll awaken alone and cold. But for now, we’ll lay here and think of the emptiness that is to come.
It’s quiet now. You’ve just told me we won’t last. You lay your head on my chest. “I wonder if she can hear my heart breaking?” I imagine my heart as shifting tectonic plates. As my brain scrambles to recognize this feeling, it exclaims “Ah, heartache. We meet again.” My brain relays messages to my liver, kidney, colon, muscles, nervous system, and lungs of the coming storm. They then ready for the great purge of sorrow to come.
“Look at the people: elbows, knees, earlobes, crotches, feet, noses, lips, eyes, all the parts usually clothed, and they are engaged in whatever they usually do which is hardly ever delightful, their psyches stuffed with used matter and propaganda, advertising
propaganda, religious propaganda, sexual propaganda, political propaganda, assorted propaganda’s, and they themselves are dull and vicious. They are dull because they have been made dull and they are vicious because they are fearful of losing what they have.
The people are the biggest horror show on earth, have been for centuries. You could be sitting in a room with one of them now or with many of them. Or you could be one of them.
Every time the phone rings or there is a knock on the door I’m afraid it will be one of the disgusting spiritually destroyed useless babbling ugly fawning hateful humans.
Or worse,on picking up the phone the voice I hear might be my own, or upon opening the door I will see myself standing there, a remnant of the wasted centuries, smiling a false smile, having learned well, having forgotten what I am here for.”
-from Betting on the Muse: stories and poems by Charles Bukowski.