Forever and Always, Yours

Forever and Always, Yours

Mark Coleman

Virtually unknown. No love life to speak of (he didn’t hit hard enough.) Wilting, dying. All and all, a suicide to remember. Didn’t leave a letter, but made a hell of a mess of the tissue box. Couldn’t leave without a bit of bemoaning, I guess. Contrast that with the brains on the ceiling. Little bit of a spatula smear. Just red and grey on a pock marked canvas. Collapsed, ear to ground, like a goddamn Indian. The buffaloes grazing before and after. Myopic as all fuck.

Saw him fall down, and just stay there. Not drunk, just not wanting to get up. If he attempted an upright position, the black ice would have achieved a T.K.O. A great victory for the beasts of Pamplano. Laid flat, demanding cocktail napkins and fountain pens. The pens, of course, were of the disappearing ink variety. Memoirs are just removed tattoos, after all.

The little pucker of the lips before the full-on frown. The one that scars the forehead with worry lines. Nose smelling its own scuffing. The associations between a scab and mildew are astounding. Nearly cut off my thumb for less. Piece of dog hair in a cut, and a bottle of whiskey in my veins. Rushing Grand Canyon style. Sweating crimson with a nightstick coming down, again and again, into the back of my head.

My reflection puddling. A self that cannot scream. Left with marionette jerks. Spasms for the mothers who rejoice in Self. Bottom feeders, all. Self image, so grossly distorted from reality, that it makes Jesus look like a saint. Sure, sure, sure. Sadism’s derived from Masoch. Masochism’s derived from Sade. Pull the switch, watch me rock back and forth with an Edison elephant smile. Stick needles in my arms, but lay into me for doing the same.

I understand. For it is not my right. But if it is yours, I’m going to convert to Christianity, just so I can watch you burn in Hell.

Forever and always, yours.