The Mind's Necropolis

Ici, past and present lay entwined, love and experience laid to waste in cloudy depths. No sense in regurgitating what has perished – advice given by fellow dwellers, they process and recycle the metaphysical corpse of memories, emotions and confrontations – your autobiographical corpus is much modified to taste.
I gesticulate and you in return adopt my actions, habit, you say – how about this gesture – I give you the finger. Pushed through the cushiony habitat of where dwelling thoughts reside, this experience reaches the “metropolis of dead thoughts” – “la métropole des pensées morts”. Now your face, from my memory, will be erased.
A motive, a cause, a justification – “Je dois avoir un raison d’être a vivre” – Staring blankly into the murky surface of a river, a faint black outline of a reflection can be distinguished if accompanied by a concentrated squint. Suddenly the surface is broken as a streamlined amphibian gulps greedily for air before re-drowning in the velvety depths, which cling to the skin. Outward rings from an invisible target, beneath the reflective exterior; you could swear you saw a pair of cold eyes observing you.
Last night flashes briefly – a cinematic clip before the film burns and unravels, a final drop of red slowly pushing – gravity-bound, down the slanted screen. Last night’s glass-inflicted scars remain, however flimsy memories, recollections cremate in the same fire that consumed visual reminiscence. All that remains physically evident is the vertically raised scar that blesses the forearm, delicate blood vessels glowing, as their disturbed ends seem to rupture at the sight of pressure.
Severe lack of purpose results in alternative modes of enjoyment and passé temps – I found my substitute enriched with luxurious crimson, viscous and clotted, perhaps the scars were a congenital deformity – they’ve existed as long as I can remember. The outpour congealed on surfaces, too pale to muster enough strength to wash the red clear, drain it white, until pale becomes translucent. Glass like skin becomes a window – all the beautiful workings of mankind now revealed – I want to watch, I want to exist in this moment as I appear to be circulatory structure, blues and reds – white encasement, and bleed it out until the mind fades black and welcomes you to its graveyard – its necropolis.