09.28.17 – Unscripted
I didn’t have a machine beating in the background to take the taps and make mixed tapes that maxed the missed space from my tapping that Morse message. It was too morose to hang a hard hook on and let it carry the weak and weary lines to fine end. These were the peak times for light lips, swinging hips, and winged gits that stole a whole soul with a single sling of arrow and silvered swill. It’d never end well, sending heavier swells to drown out the sounds of our once glorious glossy format; the lossy compression couldn’t make a lasting impression in solely a single season of that spilling treason.
He was taking a blade to the black matte, editor in the back, cutting slack from the jumbled jungles jarring up the proceeding rough run. I told him to relax into the italics, reallocate that metal angle to a clear slant before aligning the next rhyming clip. At the flip it’d seem like a meaningful measure missing from the treasured verses we heartily rehearsed. But that sound, hardly reversed, was a gunshot made out to be a plot hole; a shout out to being not whole, bullet-riddled and whittled down to a script ripped and torn with no means to strap that staff or get giddy on the bloody revival’s arrival.
I hoped those gaps wouldn’t collapse the piece, leave it in a heap, like a body huddled in an alley till it just wasn’t anybody at all; blended back into the brick of a sick city no longer believing the jargon scrawled on those unlit walls. The senseless violence hid the silence visiting since god gave her last breath and the left behind was gifted with no kind of worth. The merciful made mirth for fallen fellows and though we hadn’t heard Gabriel’s bellows we were longing for the charging choir. Our chant was to aspire to the harp and halo; with heart and hope we go, to glory and its missing story.