Valentine Deported

It’s a good night for Pandora endorsed “Avant Garde Jazz”. A keyboard with 26 letters and a host of other marks to place upon the screen. The day on the calender says “February 14th” a manufactured holiday to celebrate the love we share for other human beings but, to be more to the point, a date manufactured to show the love we have for one targeted human being. Not the general shared love for all man kind that would seem to be a good idea.

We concern ourselves with the singular. Offspring of the Me generation, we have given over to our own selfish way to love and kneel before the alter of our own misconception. Who wrote the tomb of love? We can never uncover the sources, but know him / her to be a savage masochist. A being of midnight black self loathing.  Not a skin tone but the color of a missing soul and utter lack of humanity.

Cupid, a winged bat acid freak with the devil’s intentions and lust on the tips of arrows. A fleeting mix of kinetic energy to explode fireworks into spaces and spasms of time. The hard sting of open handed, manicured fingers across a freshly shaven, ill spoken mug. The callouss remarks of skewed versions of happy memories. The end, the end, the cold hard, back in the bottle end.

Renew, spring sprung, and stuck again with a raging case of red, violet red streamers in the heart shaped bliss of ignorance. Broken, torn, and tattered, a self awareness permeates the situation. Odd man out in a sea of even people. Sane enough to survive and filled enough not to care how.

A dark empty, brick paved alley. A rat frozen on a trash can top. Frozen dead by the bitter cold and left taxidermic by low levels of mercery. Sad baritone bass line cast a sheet of snow to drizzle God’s tears in stop motion agony. Red, violet red cast on a naked snow covered trash.

Gone from the daylight, of the sun’s path around the Earth. Walk on the sails of winds and hear the Syrian’s call. Her maiden, the sea, a mother; the world crashes down and returns back from which it came. Into the Sailor’s depths. A Davy Jones fate washed upon the shores of a hollow, empty shell.

No fuel to pump the power source. Momentary spasms ignite a pale spark of what once was contained. The monitor shows a flat line and life continues. Systems reserve style of ill gotten emotions strung up on inspection line. An everyday act for an everyday world.

In this world, this reality where the world operates on a changing schedule based on insanity. It’s hard not to go a bit crazy. All that remains is a crap shoot. A random muzzle flash into a universal sea. Shoot for the stars and no matter where you end up there will be something to get sore at. Scorn is a viper intent.