Leave the revolution
to the revolutionaries
Darkness swirled around the belly-up body. Patient and hungry, the night sky peered through the roof in knowing anticipation. The struggle would not last forever for the man on the bathroom floor. His mouth gaped wide, his eyes fixated on the shitty-cracked ceiling, and his arms and legs seized in agony. The contents of a wasted evening spilled out over the cracked edges of young, chapped lips. Every muscle cried out for freedom, and every bone sought life. His mind was ablaze with self-preservation, helplessly shouting orders to its once loyal subjects. And the music was so fucking loud.
Strung together by the madness of a stereo system, the party drank its woes away in the next room. Each guest waded through a knee-deep ocean of bottle, glass, and cigarette with anxious recklessness, their bodies chilled by the lopsided whirlwind of the ceiling fan blades. Drowned-out conversations oozed through their alcohol-soaked teeth and infected the air-conditioned air. The smell was shit, but the room-dwellers longed for this; they lived for the thick smog and breathed it in deeply. Something else sifted through the apartment, weaving its way in and out of the crowd. Permeating the walls and windows was the blackness of the midnight sky. Undetected, it passed through each and every soul who dared attend the party. And the music was so fucking loud.
No one heard the first few knocks. It was their own damned fault for twisting the jet-black knobs of the speaker system to 10. Outside the front door, on the third story of the adobe complex, three or four police officers would rather be sleeping. After his knocks proved useless, the leading man made the obvious suggestion and was encouraged by his colleagues. He took a single step away from the door and, all action-movie-motivated, pompously rammed his heel six inches below the door handle. And everybody heard that shit.
The phone calls had been battering the tired police for quite a while. From 10:30pm to 12:36am, the torrent fell with little reprieve and surging rapidity. Their language varied from coarse to demonic as each described in biased detail the partiers’ sin. Drenched by the burden of responsibility, the authorities operated in a predictable fashion. And at 12:36am, as the frightening pulse of police car lights flooded the apartment parking lot, the calls ceased.
The door was unhinged. The door was slow motion. It dropped abnormal, like a great castle bridge. Deliberate and strange, the grace of its cinematic nature betrayed the truth of its siege. From the moment it entered free-fall the screams rang out. Terror seized the crowd. Scattering and scared, they scrambled like sewer-soaked rats. Two cops burst through the entryway, trampling the defeated door, looking to make peace. The partygoers retreated to the living room in a panic, only to embarrassingly find that no exit could be found. Signaling for his fellow officers to enter, a tired, forty-three year old man ripped an mp3 player out of place. Finally that fucking music stopped.
“SHUT THE FUCK UP”
“ON THE GROUND SHITSTAINS”
“TRY SOMETHING YOU STUPID FUCKFACE”
Nobody tried shit. Instead they sat still, quietly anxious of the miserable night that lie ahead of them. A few policemen lazily snooped around the rest of the apartment, seeking other ‘serious offenders’ while their cohorts controlled the main group. One made his way to the guest bedroom.
In one motion the young officer flung the cracked door wide open and switched the light on. Immediately he was caught off guard by the spacious and tidy room, which brightly contrasted the mess and disorder of its surroundings. A made bed and its accompanying antique dresser stood proudly atop the clean grey carpet. Even the air tasted purer as he drew it in, stirred as it was by ceiling fan vortex, gently whirring. The awful stench of the previous room exited his body and mind. He noticed the guest bathroom door shut and its light on. Anticipating a scared teenager, he jostled the handle – and found it locked.
“We’re tired. It’s late. Just open the fucking door.”
The door just stood there, silent.
“I’m gonna kick this door in and your friend’ll have to pay f-”
A sharp pain rang through his skull, like kitchen spoons carving clumps out of a jack-o-lantern. Head in hands, he released a loud, sharp scream as his knees buckled and failed. His body was grounded for a moment. After seconds of stillness he felt the pain subside and, removing his hands from his forehead, looked around. The room was dark. As the initial shock faded, the two-year cop contained himself and calmly stood upright. He reached for his flashlight.
“Fuck… Hey, I need a light in here!”
No answer returned. The noise and commotion of the living room had gone completely. He placed his hands on the wall to his right and, slow-striding, retraced his steps. But none of them made a sound. Even the whir of the ceiling fan was lost amidst the darkness. The fragrance of the room began to favor burnt steak and cold steel. He pressed his jacket’s left sleeve against his nose. A number of moments passed.
With each subsequent step, it grew clearer and clearer that the shape and size of the room was now dramatically different. He continued in the darkness, confused and alone, feeling along the wall. It gradually shifted from its drywall texture to something resembling the bark of an old tree. He muttered, alone, to himself. Then his hands fell through, landing him face first on the soft white carpet. And he just lay there on his side, trembling and cold.
Epithet - Sprawled
Exit Only, trap door
Split open on the floor
Be at peace, resting piece
Had my fill, resting piece
All your powers, there were signs
I should have told you
There was no more time
I know my reasons, I know this rhymes
Exit Only, exit door
Don’t drop me, back’s sore
Am I - devil, single man -
Thoughtful in my killing plan?
Close your eyes and bow your head
Leave me alone or let me go
I know you see me
My mind is locked inside your camera box
All I see is what you see of me
So I’ll act out what you want
I’ll string up where you’ve strung me
I’ll be held as I’m molded
Thrown in hell and you won’t save me
Even if you could
All I see is what you see of me
I wrote this roughly 18 months ago, didn’t really take it seriously until now.
"My house shall be called a house of prayer, but you are making it a robbers’ den"
Even voices in my head crack
Another cover? I must be running out of ideas!
Sufjan, Lift Up Your 37-Year-Old Head! (Celebrate! Party! Eat Cake!)
The Party Hat Looks Nice on You
Now That I’m Older
Get Real Get Presents
All Delighted Birthday Boys Raise Their Hands
Enjoy your Birthday
Age of Awe(some)
To eat cake With You
the Birthday’s Quintessential Excitement
Come on! Feel the wrapping paper!
For the winners in Paradise, throwing you a party
Joy! Joy! Joy!
(After all the fun…)
"Too Much cake"
"All for Myself"
"A Good bathroom Is Hard To Find"
"Oh God Where Are You Now?"
"I Want To Be Well"
Before you post that
Who the fuck cares?