Apr 4, 2009 4:04pm

to sick to pray, lord. (part 2).

Untitled by ruzz (© 2002-2009 i.m. ruzz’ favorite sin)

“Oh and if there’s any love in me,
Don’t let it show.” - Noah and the Whale

a quiet voice calls incessantly, weeping out of the long arc of a meaningless life. begging without need, wanting without desire. a twisted knot of hair-thin thought tangled in the opening & closing of a tired & filthy mouth. just make one true thing.

a promise. ever promise, not fullfillment of promise.

he sits night-long on heaped & worn burbur carpet alone but for his weakness, mistakes & the things which live off him. tired eyes hold to the faux bronze covered candle holder. unfashionably intricate with spires & curves of metal. wrapped in glass & stains of smoke. he holds tight a lone match but never moves no more.

make a true thing, and be saved whether yer inclined to be saved or not.

hard aching nests behind the fourth & fifth ribs. binds to every cell & becomes every thought through pure violence. a snake of tissue thick & scarred winds from hunched spine inward. this riverbed of damage dry so nearly perfect & once flowed heavy with artifacts of death, & her children. large shoulder spasms send the body unto a chaos of compensation. an arm falls weak & numb suggesting future ends. small wounds appear & scar, or fade away. raped for blood by the night. or just a pimple. no way be sure. this body holding the miracles of the universe, the science of life & mechanics of beauty goes unheralded, slowly falling apart.

step to & speak, making a true thing, never a thing true.

a collection of mishaps mishappen. problems. episodes. loss. mistakes. oversights, or attacks. each misfortune woven to it’s sister, each loss to it’s mother, each misery to it’s great-long-dead grandfather & becomes fine cloth. it’s tacked to walls, folded neatly, carried in bags or lay’d out under young girls come undressed. it comes fine with contrast. comes a suggestion with out focus. adornment or cover, you can’t ever ken for sure.

hope’s a promise you need but ain’t strong enough to admit you need.

a great torrent of wills put the fires out. each one after the other. they smoke & fester but burn nothing anymore. soonday, you’ll forget they were threatening. soonday, you’ll forget you were ever this close to burnin. smoke will swirl & make unfathomable patterns incalcuable. soot & ash will fall away to new life. the heat will while away one night & never a trace of what happen’d here will be seen again.

truth can’t be reckoned till everything that might change it has ceeded.

soonday you will find friday night has come. dark, full of fresh spring air & invitin you to the week end. it’ll tell stories about olden times. it’ll wet its tongue & press itself against you. into you, & invite with all it’s charms. a key will unlock the math of time & space & your entire life will fit ‘tween the thighs of friday, & the sleep filled eyes of monday morning. you may be overcome with fear or you may brush against knowin your misery is a list, your sorrow a manifest. or you may find a match, broken & burnt, stains your fat fingers & the possibilities are too great.