Bernstein

Bernstein

 

In the nighttime, all that isn't bolted with memory flies to the west.

 

It is said that the wild things march, seething with a beautiful agony that echoes through the moonlit avenues until the dawn rides through the alleyways with an undescriptive bliss and lust; the wild things march carefully along the fetid cobblestone with sunken eyes and crusted lips.

 

The hearts of these creatures can only be described as evil; those that torture the winds with magnanimous envies and carnal parades on a carnival of power and avarice. No one knows the glorious madness which suffers the pain of personhood, the depth of the woeful despise that wretches the lonely moonlight when the stars have left the sky to lie in their hovels of comfort and wicked blessings.

 

Love is a funny trouble.

 

I would wait with scratching fingers until blood poured down my wrists from angst and infatutation, hungrily dialing cellular phones in the darkness of my filth and my frustrations unspeakable now that ages have passed and manhood lies before me.

 

The wild things march at night; when dawn comes to rest in the sunshine of the day and the old replies linger on a drunken screen like a piano with bourbon in it's heart, twisting the classical beauties into majestic violence, a heartbreak too large for the tiny rooms of this earth.

 

I keep falling in love alone; lone triumphs mask the tyranny of night, when all things have come to rest in their loving demise; those that reap havoc from the fields of their fury while pondering the quiet calls of the redbirds through the trees of the vacant parking lot.

 

No phone calls return and in the dim glow of amourous distractions, I hate myself, my many lives, my body, my home.

 

The wild things march at night in the homes where nobody knows, beneath the haunting luminescence of the retail awnings, smoking cheap cigarettes and cheaper downfalls, drinking liquor too strong to numb the loud reelings of a dangerous world into a lull of sleep and warmth. The homesick winds roll troubled and I watched my life pass before my eyes; the many loves, the many hates, the swing set of my youth.

 

Innocence can only be taken. The rest is a duty of God; blood and fire rule this world.

 

My many loves can only be described as loathe. I await the stillness of morning, the stillness of an honorable death, the axilaration of numbness, sinking through my sheets into a lonely hell on east 16th street waiting for the day.

 

In the noon, the wild things rest. Their anxious sorrows drift to the promise of some day and the morning cools to the rain of spring.

 

I rest in the noontime reigned by sleep only to awake for a wretched meal of truth; the quiet angst of morning that slips insidiously into night.

 

I envy those who still love the world.