Stream of Consciousness

sand hot and burning
grains melting into the soles
of toughened feet
bare and brave
stomping through the dunes
kicked up
by wind and wave
and hot summer days
soles burning
within the sin of heat
thrust into the waters
cool currents rushing
over the skin
cleansing or cutting
or seeping within
epidermis rising
pulling away
layer by layer
rejecting its brother
wall of pus
separating that which was
and that which is
and that which never
should be
blister screaming
for release
screaming reassurance
i am here
i am alive…
i am alive…
i am alive…

solitude
wrapped in the soothing blanket of silence
no phone
nor doorbell to intrude upon this prize
all mine mine mine
wrapped in the black night
and vivid starlight
i rediscover myself
who i am who i was who i will be
somber with knowing that i was always here
can’t escape from me
even in solitude

inner voices call out in droves
sirens leading one way or another
roads that go nowhere
misdirected signs
faulty traffic lights
where there is only me
chills shaking freezing
the body reacts overcompensates
for the fever racking the brain
and i lie drowning in a river of sweat
can never be warm enough
but there’s only me
to tuck in the blankets and stoke the fire
and remember to take the little pills
but not too many nor too often
and the clothes confine
fabric strangling choking
resisting the fingers that pull
tearing it away
cringing at the sound of ripping flesh
or rending linen all the same
welded in the night
and the fever broke
as blackness screamed enough
and took over the soul
and the alarm sounded
but the lump remained
dense reminder in my throat forcing silence
lost prize too late i should have known or guessed
or tried to throw the fight
always bet on the guy with the shiny gold tooth 

tears on a statue
seem so ironic
until the statue blinks and it is me
with no blood left in my veins
drained of living
trying to find the purpose
or at least the escape
but i only find walls
i thought i put them there
but i can’t find the door or fly over

i know what it is to be one of the dead
who rises in the night
to sink teeth into living flesh
ripping out the muscle and chewing it carefully
sucking every drop of blood before spitting
the useless meat to the floor
anything to get to the drug
flowing in human veins
it is empty
hollow frustration striking out blindly
venting on innocents
desperate to find something to plug the hole
before the dike bursts
and the soul is totally consumed
it is empty
lifelessness in life
death in living
what is the purpose

escape run hide flee
why blood
the taste of warm living
the soothing caress of life flowing
down the throat
and filling the emptiness
with an addictive surge
that evaporates
dissipates all too quickly
and then there is nothing again
but the pain
and the dream
and the desire
and the memory of life
and the knowledge that there is nothing
to satiate the need
nothing
but emptiness and the struggle
to see through another night

so tired
so tired of living
to tired of carrying the hope
and the need and never being fulfilled
and living with false hopes
and dreams too impossible
furious with those who say they understand
and never do
though they dance and sing around you
as long as they have nothing better to do
but are the first to strike the flint
and disappear in the storm
so tired of the living
who always die
so once again there is nothing

sister soul of the damned that was me
be warned not to walk too closely with me
i am cursed damned to die every day in slow torture
i will bring you down
i will sink you to my depths
i will feed upon your blood and your soul
i will triumph in your pain
for the moment fleeting moment
that it makes me forget my own torment
before that too passes and I seek another

not even the taste of the metal
is interesting any more
the knife and the barrel taste the same
lips wrapped around the blade
in the deepest of kisses
the tongue sliding over the fine steel edge
while the blood seeps out of the cut
flowing down the chin
like an exotic nectar of forbidden lust
as i gasp for air
just dig the knife deeper
at least in pain i know i’m alive
cut me open
let me see that my heart does beat
drench me in blood
so i know i am not empty
kill me
so i know that once i lived

solitude
wrapped in the soothing blanket of silence
eyes closed and rocking
back and forth on the empty bed
screaming silently
praying for reassurance
i am here
i am alive…
i am alive…
i am alive…


2 Responses to “Stream of Consciousness”

  1. Kim, this is brutal. It compels me to keep rereading it to get something new each time. The part that begins with “so tired” is my favorite. I can’t wait to read it again.

  2. Glad you find it compelling! And you’re right, it *is* a brutal poem. Lots of strong emotion in this one, written at a time where I was going through a lot of self-doubt and uncertainty, among other feelings. I find myself reading over this one more than most, sort of surprised I didn’t explode during that time of my life, I was feeling so much! Written during my ‘year of confusion’ in the mid-1990s, this truly was an example of stream of consciousness writing. While I find it harsh and compelling to read, I’m not sure I want to read it too deeply. This was one of my final poems that year, thank goodness.

    Always,
    KJ

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