Gettysburg Pillow...

Goddamn I am.

It's funny and somewhat sad
that whilst all this chaos is swirling around me,
I am falling apart from the inside as well.
My body is sending me silly messages,
that cannot be ignored.
I have little feeling in my left hand for most of the day.
And my nose bleeds in my sleep.
My pillow
when I rise,
looks like the battle of Gettysburg.

What is happening?

Did she know something that I didn't?
Was I cast off because my machine was broken and doomed?
Was I no longer alpha material?
Could she smell the decay?

I have been next to expired souls.
I have sat thru dissections
and the digging.
The smell is something that you never forget.

Do I wear this smell?
Have I made it my own?
Am I the anonymous body on the steel table?
Am I?
Goddamn I am.

And still I rise.

My guess is,
my nose bleeds,
because my delicate sensibilities
are not used to old baseboard heaters.
And my left hand is numb,
from jerking off so much.

But the baseboard heaters aren't turned on.
And my mule and I haven't shook hands in awhile.

So what is happening?

I know this...
I am out treading water
on the rippled black fabric of life
just steps away from my back door.

And as of late,
the ice has moved in.
And even if you thought you could sink
beneath the ebony and magenta cover,
it would talk an axe and strong shoulders,
or a fourteen inch two stroke powered blade,
to cut thru this mess and find the black sleep beneath.

Goddamn I am.
I am Murdoc.
And my tears don't matter much.

Photographs and Misery.

I spent the day unpacking
going thru boxes and crates;
traveling back,
to a place that no longer exists.
A place that now,
never existed.

And for every item
that came out,
from beneath the cradle and fold of crisp white tissue and bubble wrap,
came another ache and punch of disgust.

I found myself physically ill halfway thru the task.
It was like enduring the autopsy of a loved one.
"Dig deeper towards the bottom,
and maybe we'll discover just what killed this beautiful beast."

And it was the photographs that felt the most like shattered bones.

Our lives had been documented by accomplished artists.
Important moments were captured and held forever
in various palettes;
bordered by thick mats with proud signatures,
inside custom frames.

"The Kiss"
This picture is so beautiful that it hurts me to wrap it back up
and tuck it away.
It was a personal moment,
stolen by another artist friend.
We never knew our tender moment
had been compromised.
He found us in an embrace on a pale blue night
amongst a thousand other souls.
His lens and eye
made the masses disappear,
and it was just her and I.
As we were,
oblivious to the madness that surrounded us.
He captured our Nation of Two.
This picture hung in an exhibition in Germany.
And now I just want to burn it,
make it all go away.

What do you do
when you have important works of art
depicting you, and a life that is no longer?

I guess I will just wrap them back up
in crisp white tissue and bubble wrap.
And stow them away behind dressers,
or in safe spots in attics and sheds.

But I find myself asking,
why?

Perhaps it is something broken in my machine.
I have something,
from every person that has ever touched my existence.
If you are reading this
and know me,
ask me.
I have something of ours.

And so I carry this weight.
And crisp white tissue, and bubble wrap,
keep the weights safe from harm
and future damage.

Tonight I would like to sleep
in crisp white tissue and bubble wrap.
Maybe it wouldn't hurt so much
to wake up,
out here,
so very alone.

An Introduction If You Please...

I am Murdoc.  Murdoc I am.
I know this because of the cigarette burns on the vanity of my new existence.
Scars seared into countertops have confirmed my travels,
have brought me home.
And so I find myself here.

I was warned by a close friend,
"Don't let anyone know how you feel.  Keep the pity me, I'm so sad bullshit to yourself. 
Make it seem like you're having the time of your life.  Don't give anyone the satifaction
of knowing that they may have knocked you back or down.  Fuck 'em."

And so I find myself here.
Doing the exact opposite of what he instructed.
Because I need to get this ache inside me out.
I need to express this sad music that fills my soul as of late.
I need to purge.

Tonight, while doing my dishes
I froze.
I locked up.
I stood in front of the sink like a statue;
Listening to the sound of my heart breaking
beneath the heavy, rusty iron crush of an inverted Eifel Tower.
It was the creak and brittle stretch of imperfect metal giving way.
And then the tears came.
And I stood there
in front of my sink
like a statue.

And thusly I started the Hit and Miss Engine Papers.