So She Was

by | Jan 15, 2022 | Robert Vaughan - January Day 2

“The future is a past that has not yet come to pass. Do you ever suddenly find it strange to be yourself?” –Clarice Lispector

The hollow monotony vibrates through porous mouths. Intoxication of sky lodges its devouring yawn between humans and me. Cigarettes blind the muttering gestures of chronic language. Overdressed meals and hearsay crumble their butts in the ashtray. I flaunt idle. Eyes vast and explosive as Ukraine.

Raging internal desire emanates from Mother’s wheelchair on the balcony. Particles of her are unable to spark synapses of flames she used to implode. My power basks in solitude. Can a story parch a death? Mother is bathed in my spellbound pallor of promise. I detonate her with stories, plays, endings obese with resurrection.

Mother dies. I shut-up. A pain of shriveled control affronts and tags me as a charlatan. I believe in my spindled prose. My childhood is huge and envelopes even the most passive semen from extended brethren. ‘Fresh flesh’ they pin me. Haughty cousins, uncles raw with the junk of their sewage take me as their inheritance.

Vague reality is rudderless past lives. My power lies in lack of memories and visions.

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