DD - SpiralDancer - She (A Chemical Solution For Generation X)

She (A Chemical Solution For Generation X)

It's raining again, she thinks, chin propped idly by her hand.
Her hazel eyes staring emptily out across the grey, corroded cityscape below her as the drops of dilute acid are spattered against the dirty window.

Something for the pain?

I could go into the whys and hows as to how and why I write the poetry I do.
In the end though they're just words. Words to fill the empty, dark void left by long lost feelings. Words coursing through my mind like a river of static.

Catharsis, conclusion, contusion.
Cigarette... Angry cigarette burns.

Two months into her life without her.
Without the love, without the warmth, the company.
She allowed herself a slight smile... Without the sex.

Something for the pain?

All poets are adept at lying. They have to be.
I've never been a woman, I don't recall it at any rate, yet here I write about some non-existent woman.

Cold blue tiles, water, brown, rusty brown water.
verb-adverb-noun, cause-effect-reason.

She sighs deeply and pulls hard on her cigarette.
Memories of the cold blue tiles beneath her bare feet.
The cold, empty space in the bed beside her.
The memory of blood flowing into the rusty brown water in an old enamel bath. Lines of angry scars and cigarette burns from a cruel husband.
The cold, empty space behind her burning eyes.

A chemical solution?

Sometimes I find myself borrowing from experience.
My own or that of those around me, it does not matter nor concern me.
You ask if I believe in vampires.
I stand before you.

Anyone involved in art takes something from those around them.
Empathetically speaking that makes us all vampires.

Generation X, life, still-life.

She crushes the cigarette into the windowsill and stares at the ash in disgust.
Staring into her eyes and swimming away. Somewhere safe.
Seeing that fear just behind the surface.
The lesions left by that bastard who fucked her head over and over and over and over.

She stopped taking the Prozac a week ago and felt a damn sight better for it.

A chemical solution for the hurt inside.

And you ask WHY?
How about, "I hurt. I feel.
What pains me, I throw into this big, black hole.
This big, black hole that I fall into, every night that I sleep.
I dream, and I hurt. And in the morning I have to crawl out of that big, black hole. Clawing and climbing to face the world with a smile on my face and blood on my hands so people like you, boy, can feel that everything is okay!"

O k a y ?

She walks slowly towards the sink and with her tired, tired hand, turns the corroded tap.
A splutter of dirty water falls into the copper kettle she finds herself holding under the flow of nitrates and leads. She painfully twists the tap and stuanches the flow to a steady, rhythmical drip.

Drip.

She stops, staring at her hands. At the small brown mole on her wrist.

Of course, there are times when I can write such personal prose that it shocks even myself!

Drip.

She thinks of things she should not know.
Of thoughts that are not hers.

Drip.

Images of people. Of a house. Of loud music.
Too loud almost.

Drip.

Images of a young man standing limply, one arm against the wall, steadying him, the other held out as he stares emptily at it as if it were not his own. An older, taller man, crouched at the side of a bath, his head hung low, over the bath. Sobbing, he looks up at the younger man. A young woman, pale as snow. Lying inside the bath. The water coloured red by her blood. The blue tiles spattered with her life.

Drip.

The young man stands, open mouthed, screaming soundless fears and curses to god.

Drip, drip, drip.

The water dripping from his hands. The blood upon his palms falling to the blue tiled floor. The older man staring up with childlike fear in his eyes, Holding her hand as she slips away into the black ocean of dreamless sleep forever. The water, a terrible crimson from her blood, lapping around her ashen white body.

Nobody should have to see this.
Nobody.

As if waking from a dream she shakes her head clear of the vision and walks to the gas cooker and thumbs the ignition in the vain hope that it has miraculously fixed itself overnight. The flame bursts into life and she places the kettle down upon the blue fire, closing her eyes as the clatter stabs her forebrain like a blade.