Silver Elephants

I depicted them to myself, as any desperate infantile child could. A
hapless mirage, figures of my own invention. Maybe memories I'd rather
not mention. The voices seared within my skull, screeching with
shattered sirens and minds forever broken by the agony of irony. I had
broken down all to often to not vanish within this definition. I watched
him grope defiantly at the rope, as it swung, balancing the weight of
his body with pressure unbeknownst his vast strength. What led this
deranged man to destroy that thing, that thing that made him tic?

The light would fail him like everything else. Not before long,
the irony of truth would stir from the distant mercurial depths of his
shattered former self. Somehow, it seemed wrong to let him die. But for
some reason it wasn't so bad, it was a sad world. He'd lobotomized many
a Mary and John, drilled holes into their skulls for believing in the
voices of freedom. Or being crazy. Or just intense. He hated intensity,
at least anyone else's but his secret one. The bliss of knowing
everything that you stole from everyone else, what a joy it was.

The noise, such sweet noise! Victory at last! It took him over, and
there he stirred weightlessly almost infinitely. But as soon as the
beauty created that moment of peace, overtaken by the explosions within
those catacombs of this rapist's mind. First a whir, a hum or was it an
alarm going off in the distance? He didn't know passion. He was a
doctor of the mind, not fabrications there-of perceptions there-fore
reactions or equations he misunderstood. He'd created his own hell.
Swinging back and forth now, dripping with terror and sweating to the
core, he struggled against a beautiful background. Pretty soon, he
conveniently slipped behind the fabric of his life. Back to the dirt
and earth and worms and snails went his life, and the millions of
glorious panaceas. Medicines to wit, should bring him back someday he
hoped. Oh but it was a desperate hope, and surely they would. And they
grew fatter every day wishing he were back.

Meanwhile, on the other-side of the curtain the olfactory scent of
disdain filled the auditorium. Peeled potatoes. Rotting flesh and his
curse. It aches, it burns, it stiffens to the touch that terrible limb. A
fleshy abscess so tumorous and grand that it infects the whole circus
parading the elephant around the room. Companies cheer. Hoorah hoorah!
Pharamacopia! The elephant roars and tramples destitution and poverty
with its might. Oh glory, hallelujah. A church bell in the distance
chimes, once twice thrice and the city awakens to the uproar. Mass
hysteria. They are chilled. Freaked out. Scared. Paranoid.

The doctors have all gone mad! They storm their own buildings and
break the windows and murder the drug pushers and the science behind
it.The raving man behind the bars, screams incessantly to the
police-office people. And they do not care. But as they carve their
faces off and lift their own weight, their toes tremble within their
boots because they know they will end up just like he is somehow,
starved mutated veterans. Blood. Blood is everywhere it is seeping from
the walls, the blood of war and terrorism He stares on and glares on..
What do i do when everything is red like a rose, but dead like my
dreams that keep staring and staring wide eyed wildly off into the
poverished shores of some world made of death.

The black man laughs with sympathy, President to the United States of
terrorism. They parade his corpse around the room longing for air and
swearing under their breath, and now it means nothing. He's an utter
lunatic. "Ahem," the overseer of lies begins his usual chant of death
to the Queen, and then circumvents his usual lie by passing out on
stage. Mic still in hand. Shocks. Roars of disbelief. He's going into a
seizure! It was simply a joke right? She screams as he waves his knife
around. You schizophrenic they scream! You fucking piece of shit! He
serenades her with guilt and flowers and magical beings, ones with
cures for curses. His curse of course was being a crook with a long
shelf-life. They brought him a sterilized needle. Goodbye Doctor. You
won't be needed here much longer, for Jesus has come to lift the veil
of curiosity from us at last. Peace comes eventually.

She stuttered, tangled in poetic slurs from the Thorazine drenched by
the sweet solitude of rain without a reason. He lashes his tale, he
lashed and lashed and lashed that monstrous tale. That beast! No one
heard him. And the birds fluttered careless undisturbed by his ranting
spectacle. Nursed to life were the shadows of the past, scarred and
haplessly, they wandered from block to block staring with wide eyes at
the men and women who provoked cheer and awe upon the masses. We'll cure
you of your madness! We'll erase this cancer. Well. First cancer of
the body then cancer of the mind. The body is more important after all
how will we ever reach it? Grasping at the shadows, Dr. learns to split
the atom, and turns waves at the audience slapping themselves with
giddiness and chokes at nothing in particular. I know! Kill love! Kill
passion! That'll solve everything! Then we'll go to mars!

They begin their usual rotation. Meanwhile the Doctor is watching them
from a peephole in the bathroom. Look at that little girl. She might
have a thought left, shall I dissect her sex or poetry? She is probed.
Raped. Vascular disorder. A strip tease. And she's done with them. The
body thief's job well done. Her mind is a blotter of incessant rambling
lies. I'm free, she says. I have a brain of which I can't comprehend, I
think it's dead. I was painted white by some man with an ugly beard,
and everyone at church sings. I don't care anymore, she says.

"I hate singing." They give her a tattoo and a dress to wear while she
professes her hatred of life. They feign sympathy. We don't either,
cheer up. Sing to the raindrops that no one else can see. Then they make
her a list of lullabies while patting her head, dimming the lights as
they masturbate in the kitchen. Like, if she could only wake up but now
she's singing to herself, because she can't hear anything else but the
zap of electricity in her brain. I guess she should have went insane.
But it's not a problem. For we have books for that. Read on. It's fun
really it is. Don't get uncomfortable. You'll be born again when it's
all said and gone.

We went to school to blow up the world. We were born to die. We get
sick because we are good liars. We went to Hollywood and destroyed our
chances. We make a science of this. We are idiots, picking up remnants
from the realm of doom, and sketching our ideas of what once was home.
Before it's ruined all over again, like castles of sand forever waiting
on the shore of a disillusioned dream. One who has no place to call her
own. And he leers over his with such a grotesque power. He says,"
Look. I can't solve you. I can't fix you. I can only break you down
even further."

We are Kings without crowns, miners of the light. We grope for and
steal anything that shines. An un-solveable puzzle. We can't unwind
you. We can't repair what we've done with the thing you are. All we can
do is take you to the machine, hook you up, and pretend again. There
is no bending this war of souls and men. This is only what we do. We
are here to take them all. Their voices scream on like an orchestra.
They sound scared. And inside I wonder, what are they so afraid of. Is
it because I can no longer see him swinging there, dead to the world he
left within my mind? Should I just move on and leave them all to die
in a matrix of their own design? Such perfect crooked lines. Someday
we'll all be fine.