Scratching

Scratching

I think I finally scratched that itch.  You know the one.  If you don’t then fuck off, you don’t need to be reading my confession.  Got a lust for a bust and I am on the cusp of something.  Eyes wide with the fear of the near.  Not looking for repast, I am past living in the past.  A fast turn away from memory lane.  Don’t care whether first or last in line, I gotta make do with the left side of the righteous.  I am due a rebirth and we lay down to the last carol.  If I can figure out the next step, maybe I can stop the scratching I hear outside the door.  Tight fisted in bed with my sweat and the words that pursue me down the coal mines of time.  It’s black and dusty and my eyes burn red; whether with the truth of madness or the madness of truth is what I am trying to define.  I’d sail west if the right wind blew on this island of purgatory.  I remember your face but not your name and I know that you aren’t the same as the one I knew before.  My core is molten with the fires of loss and betrayal.  I am finding the signs in the air and eyes of strangers.  The dangers are very real and you can only feel what you feel but the deals are on the table and still I am scratching that itch in the back of my cardboard soul trying like hell to draw my outline on this scene.  I want to go back home but it’s no longer there.  Besides, I am trying to leave all of that shit behind but history has a way of tapping you on the shoulder.  Cold hearted fucker.  I could murder my old self to become the new one but it sounds counterproductive.  Perhaps a union or truce is in the cards.  Incongruent and immutable, violence is not the answer but sometimes it’s the only one you have.  I drop the call and walk to the station, dragging all the past behind me like the cloak of an emperor.  I pull out a smoke and consider that the itch is still there.  So I guess I’m back to square one.  I can see someone else walking up to the waiting.  I will take that last train to Knoxville and hope that the other monkeys have an answer….

 

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25 thoughts on “Scratching

  1. “Cold-hearted fucker.  I could murder my old self to become the new one but it sounds counterproductive.  Perhaps a union or truce is in the cards.”
    I spent the other night reading old letters/correspondence just to figure out who it was I used to be and who it was whining for this truce. I just don’t think there is any salvageable quality of that old self. Maybe I’m not much better now but it’s a start. Love the anger in this, OP.

    Liked by 1 person

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